Valió La Pena (It Was Worth It)
by Gefionne
Summary: A mission gone bad leaves James Vega bitter and angry. His shore leave on Omega is interrupted when he receives a new assignment: security detail for Commander Shepard during her incarceration on Earth after the Alpha Relay incident. He looks forward to hearing some of her war stories while he's there, but he doesn't expect to fall in love with her. *Mass Effect 3 Shega AU*
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The place stank: a mix of recycled air, urine, and garbage. It carried through the whole station, though it was concentrated in places like these.

James Vega sniffed, gulping down a mouthful of cheap Terminus beer to wash the stench from his mouth. The batarian across the table from him took it for a tell and flashed his teeth in a macabre grin.

James kept his face blank, though he held the gaze of the batarian's lower two eyes. The ugly bastard only had three, the fourth socket empty and bisected by a line of dark scar tissue. Narlin was his name and he was a mid-to-nothing grunt in the Blue Suns.

"Got this taking down Archangel," he had been bragging to a recruit when James had first encountered him a ten days before. He had pointed to the scar. "Turian bastard never saw me coming."

"Clearly he did," James had chuckled. "Or were you always that pretty?" He was sitting at the bar at Fuselage, one of Omega's less reputable establishments, nursing a whisky on the rocks a few stools down from the batarians.

From what he had heard, Archangel had been some sort of vigilante who got in the way of red sand shipments and took out a few higher-ups in the local mercenary gangs. Small time stuff, but James had to hand it to him; he had balls to come to Omega and try to be a hero. Scuttlebutt said he was dead, but nobody in sanitation had ever seen his body.

_Someone that tough_, thought James, _he's off doing the same shit somewhere else_.

That night at Fuselage, James had been expecting Narlin and his newbie pal to start something, but the three-eyed batarian had laughed. "Sure as hell prettier than you, human."

James had shrugged. The night before he had issued a cordial invitation to come outside to a turian who wouldn't leave one of the asari dancers in Afterlife alone. He was one of the best hand-to-hand specialists in his unit, but taking on an alien with a hardened exoskeleton and six sharpened claws put a hurtin' on even the best. James had taken a talon to the lower lip and chin and a fist to the left eye. He had several other yellow and purple bruises on his ribs and shoulders, but the turian had limped off to the nearest med clinic cradling a broken forearm. James wondered if turians bruised.

The next day, his eye was still swollen shut and the cut on his chin was an angry red. He hadn't had any medigel that night, so he had gone back into the bar and ordered a double shot of whiskey. He drank half and poured the rest over the cut.

The asari dancer had floated over and offered to pay his tab for the night, but he had dismissed her. "It was my pleasure," he said as he walked out.

After he had related this to Narlin, he and the batarian had exchanged some brawl stories and a few more about women.

"You play cards, human?" the batarian had asked as he finished off his drink.

"From time to time," James had replied. On his last tour, the rest of his unit had barred him from their Skyllian Five tables after he cleaned them out for the fourth time.

"There's a game going most nights at Harrot's," Narlin had explained. "The old elcor bastard has one hell of a poker face. Three hundred credit buy-in. Interested?"

James had waffled for a few minutes to keep up appearances before finally agreeing. As he followed Narlin to one of the run-down kiosks in the Lower Markets he was smiling to himself, content to have found a way to pay for his shore leave without touching his paycheck.

That first night James had stumbled back to his hotel exhausted, a little drunk, and damn pleased with himself. He had a five thousand credit chit in his pocket and a higher end Elkross Combine pistol on his hip.

He didn't think he'd ever forget what the elcor Harrot had said when he had laid down yet another four of a kind, "Dismayed disbelief. Again, human? Embittered resignation. I have underestimated your species before, and came to regret it that day, too."

"What happened?" James had asked Narlin after the game.

"Oh, he got on the wrong side of one of the soldiers of your species," the batarian had said with a shrug. James, wearing his civvies, didn't bother to tell him that he himself was in the Alliance. "A female called Shepard."

Deep as he was in a fifth of Jack Daniels, James had burst out laughing. "Harrot tried to take on Commander Shepard? The first human Spectre? _Dios_, I would have paid money to see that!"

"Keep it to yourself if you want to keep taking his," Narlin had said, clapping James on the back.

And he had, appearing at Harrot's nightly poker games and taking the pots. He lost some rounds, of course, but quickly made his money back, often doubling it. By the end of the first week of his leave, he had gotten an invitation to play a night of high-stakes in Afterlife's VIP lounge. It took everything he had won and a significant chunk of his hazard pay to buy in, but he had come out with more than he made in eight months. Not that anyone in the Alliance was paid enough to brag about, even an N6.

He wondered if Commander Shepard got a fat bonus from the Council for her "distinguished service." If anyone deserved a raise, it was her.

Like every other marine on basic in '76, he had followed her career since she became one of youngest marines to be awarded the Star of Terra for courage above and beyond the call of duty on Elysium during the Skyllian Blitz. Over the next eight years, he had kept an eye out for news feeds about her being promoted again or leading a successful mission in the Verge.

He had been in special operations training in Brazil when she had been made a Spectre, and he watched the vids of her receiving the Palladium Star along with the rest of the crew of the _Normandy_ andthe 24th Citadel and Fifth Alliance Fleets after the geth incursion.

James poured two tequila shots on the night they announced that Shepard had been killed in action. He drank one and spilled the other in her honor.

He had been pleased and not altogether surprised to hear that she turned up alive after two years, though no one seemed to know how or why. He assumed it was classified and didn't lose sleep over it.

James had never met Shepard in person, of course. Most marines never had and never would, but she seemed closer to them than most other Alliance heroes, like Councilor Anderson and Admiral Hackett. James figured it had to do mostly with her age. She was only in her early thirties, just four years older than him.

Six months ago, he was on track to receive his N7 commendation, as she had. He had had a long, distinguished, and (eventually) well-paid career ahead of him. But that was before the Collectors hit Fehl Prime.

James looked back down at his cards, deliberately pushing the memories of his last mission from his mind. Straight flush, fives high. He was going to wipe that shit-eating grin right off of Narlin's face. Harrot and the two turian mercenaries had already folded.

"What have you got, human?" the Blue Suns merc taunted.

"You first, Pretty," James replied, flashing Narlin a smile.

The batarian grumbled but laid down two pair. "If you've got something to beat this, I'll never play you again."

James took a slow sip of beer. It was not the first time he had heard that threat. Usually it held for about two weeks before someone got cocky enough to challenge him again.

"Well, Pretty," he said, pausing to clear his throat, "I regret to say that this is the end of our short, but illustrious friendship." He laid down his cards to a chorus of groans.

Sweeping his winnings onto his side of the table, James got to his feet. "That's it for tonight, gentlemen. The Vega Charitable Foundation for Humanity's War Heroes opens again tomorrow at midnight. Your donations are graciously accepted."

He was cursed in several different languages as he pocketed the various credit chits, ammunition, and weaponry. Most of the guns he would sell the next day. The thermal clips he kept for his pistol.

The streets of Omega were never wholly deserted, even in the wee hours of the morning cycle, and the lights never dimmed. Arcturus or the Citadel had noticeable changes in light levels based on the galactic standard twenty-hour day, but Aria, the self-proclaimed Queen of Omega, didn't give half a shit about whether or not people slept at regular intervals.

The windowless room he was renting at least had its own on-off switches, even if there wasn't a timer. The hotel was a dingy roach trap in the Kenzo District, run by a salarian who sat at the desk snoring at the same decibel level as an oncoming freight train. When he did wake up, he told endless streams of rude jokes from the humor columns of _Fornax_.

Hearing the snoring for a good three meters down the hall, James went quickly past the desk and over to his door. Sliding the keycard three times before it actually read, he slipped into the blackness of his room.

There was little to it: stained, fraying carpet and a bunk against the wall to the left of the door. What few civilian clothes he had were scattered around in piles, if he wasn't wearing them. His duty fatigues and dress blues, though, lay on the only chair in the room, folded with sharp corners and starched creases.

He had worn the blues to the memorial service for his CO, Captain Toni, and the men on his squad killed in the line of duty on Fehl Prime. Their bodies had never been recovered from the Collector ship that took them, but their names, inscribed on steel bricks beside the insignia of the Alliance, had been ejected one at a time into the void from the funerary ward on Arcturus Station.

Most of their families had chosen to hold private services on their home colonies, but one old man, an ex-marine himself, appeared in his moldering blues to honor his grandson. Corporal Nicky Barrows, twenty-one years old, had been the fifth generation of men in their family to serve in the Alliance Navy. And he was the last. His parents had had only one child.

James had stood at attention next to Private First Class Alexandre Barrows, Retired, as the only legacy of his bloodline was spaced.

"Private," he had said, turning to the old man after the last of the salute gunners had marched out. "Lieutenant Commander James Vega. I assumed command of the mission on Fehl Prime after Captain Toni was…killed."

What the Collectors did to his squad and the colonists they were trying to protect…they weren't dead, just put in some kind of suspended animation and carried off. But he couldn't explain it right and there was no reason to. They were never coming back.

"Your grandson died on my watch, sir."

Every night he dreamed of it: watching the Collector ship explode as it met the planet's surface at terminal velocity. Battered and barely holding together, the asari archeologist Treeya had managed to get up to the bridge just in time to watch it happen. She clutched the data cuff that she had taken from that piece of shit Cerberus operative Messner in her hand as the tears rolled silently down her face. It was critical intel, the stuff they needed to take down the Collectors and put a stop to the attacks on human colonies. But out of nearly a thousand colonists, he had saved only one.

When he had delivered the data package to Alliance Command, they had congratulated him, promoted him to lieutenant commander, and then informed him that Commander Shepard of the _Normandy_ had successfully infiltrated the Collector homeworld and destroyed them. The Alliance had sent good marines to their deaths for data they didn't even need.

The old private had turned and looked James up and down with watery blue eyes. "Nicky followed his orders, son. So did you. He died with honor, and you'll live with it until your time comes." Snapping a smart salute, he barked, "Sir," and strode out with the vitality of a man half his age.

"_Honra_," James spat as he looked at the folded uniform. Soldiers died, he knew that, but when they were put in the ground for no good reason, it made him furious.

After the funeral and his promotion, he had been given two weeks of shore leave. After, he was supposed to deploy on another high-priority spec ops mission under the supervision of an N7 operative who would ultimately decide if he was ready to be elevated to the N7 designation himself. The elite of the Alliance marines, an N7 was lethal on the ground, but also a tactician and commander.

James had a head for strategy, Captain Toni had said. And if he started to act like one, he would make one hell of a commander, maybe even captain of his own frigate someday.

But Toni had been wrong. James had led all but one member of his squad and 956 colonists into their graves.

He had come to Omega to clear his head, get drunk and fight in a couple bar brawls. The fights kept the guilt at bay for a few hours, but it always returned. If he made it up to the N7, would he even be able to face another command? He was damn good at carrying out his orders, but giving them…

Walking into the bathroom of his hotel room—really a closet with a toilet that folded up when he wanted to shower—he peered at his reflection in the chipped and half-fogged mirror. The cut on his lip and chin had healed, but it would scar. It was a reminder, like all the others, of what his body had seen and survived.

"Live with honor," he said, echoing Private Barrows. He wasn't sure he knew how.

He considered taking a shower, but the water was never hot and it had been recycled so many times he was sure it was half piss anyway. Feeling the urge to contribute, he relieved himself, leaning one hand against the wall.

The room, for two weeks, didn't even cost a quarter of what he'd won that night alone. He smiled, thinking of the guns he could pick up with the richest chit in his pocket. Maybe he'd get decked out in a full set of Hahne-Kedar armor, buy an M-15 Vindicator—his duty weapon—with a stock of thermal clips and go all Archangel on Omega's ass.

The turian had been a sniper, though, he'd heard. James never had a steady enough hand for long-distance shots. Never had the patience either. He wanted to get right up into the shit in a firefight. Lay into the enemy with his rifle at close range, knock him back, and stab him. Sniping was too sterile. Before he killed someone, James wanted to see him.

He flexed the fingers of his free hand, missing the feel of an assault weapon. He had been considering, seriously, resigning from the Alliance and starting a new life on Omega. He could make it playing poker for a while, but every man's luck turned sooner or later. He'd lose it if he sat around playing cards and drinking every night anyway. Boredom and restlessness in a soldier cause more trouble than sending him out in the field.

James frowned as he zipped his fly and flushed. For ten years the only thing he'd known was military life. He didn't know how to do much else but fight. If he left the marines, his only choice would be to join a merc gang. Maybe Narlin would put in a good word for him with the Blue Suns.

"Fuck you, Pretty," he grumbled as he walked back out into the main room. "And the Blue Suns, too."

Falling back heavily onto the bed, he pulled up the Alliance News Network on his omni-tool. Even in the Terminus he wondered what was going on back home on Earth. He went to select the _Planetside Daily_, but the scrolling text at the head of the display caught his eye. It was already halfway through: "—NDREDS OF THOUSANDS, UPDATES PENDING."

James waited for the text to scroll around again, his eyes widening as he read: "ALPHA RELAY EXPLOSION IN BATARIAN BAHAK SYSTEM, CASUALTIES IN THE HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS, UNCONFIRMED ATTACK BY HUMAN TERRORIST GROUP CERBERUS."

* * *

"Not bad," James observed as he looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror outside of one of the kiosks in the Lower Markets two days later.

"You like it?" asked the quarian proprietor. She was a small female in a bright red and gold exo-suit. It was one of the better ones James had seen, and the reason he had come to her to commission a custom leather jacket. Because they always had to be covered from head to foot, the quarians were the best tailors in the galaxy. Their prices were _loco_, but he had money enough to burn.

The jacket—black, aromatic leather with a thick red bar over the right shoulder and down the length of the arm—fit him like a glove.

"Wasn't there supposed to be more red?" James asked, glancing at the plain black on the left shoulder and arm.

"Yes, yes," said the quarian, "but it looks much better this way."

"Sure," James said, shrugging, and handed her his credit chit.

The Markets were packed, bustling with traders, buyers, smugglers, and thieves. Once he had paid the quarian, James made his way over to one of the weapons dealers. Pulling out the pistol and two rifles he had won in the previous night's poker game, he started to haggle with the asari merchant. Ex-commando by the look of her, she drove a hard bargain.

"Eighteen hundred is my final offer, human," she said. "Unless you're willing to throw in tonight." She trailed a blue finger along the length of his arm.

"Not for hire," he replied, holding out his credit chit. "Eighteen hundred and _fifty_."

Smirking, the asari transferred the funds. "Too bad. You look like you've got some strong DNA for randomizing."

"Thanks," James muttered as he turned away. While no two asari looked perfectly alike, James couldn't look at one without seeing Treeya. He was done his damnedest over the two years he and Delta Squad had been on Fehl Prime to get her attention, but when he finally had they could barely look at each other anymore. The colonists stood between them, their ghosts glaring at him, blaming him for his choice to value data about their lives. He had said goodbye to Treeya on the Citadel, knowing he would never see her again. He watched as she faded into the crowd, and then he turned and boarded the transport to Omega.

Taking a step into the crowd, he bumped into another quarian, this one in an elegant lavender and white exo-suit.

"Excuse me," she said briefly before turning back to her companions, an asari in white piped with blue, and a stooped figure robed and hooded. Intrigued, he fell in step a few paces behind them.

"Are you sure this transport is secure?" he heard the quarian ask the asari.

"Absolutely, Tali," she replied. "Feron is my most trusted associate. He will see to it that Legion arrives safely at the rendezvous."

"Your concern for us," spoke a synthesized voice from beneath the hood, startling James, "is appreciated, Creator-Z—"

"Not here, Legion!" snapped the quarian, looking around them. "You can thank me when you get safely back to your people."

James, having ducked into a corner to avoid being seen, hurried after them again. Was it possible that they were smuggling some kind of advanced mobile VI? He once again considered sending in his resignation and setting up shop on Omega. At least it would never be dull.

By the time he had gotten close enough to hear their conversation again, though, the topic had shifted.

"…impound and repurposing," the asari was saying. "EDI is not going to like it."

"Do you think the Alliance will shut her down?" the quarian asked, clearly dismayed.

The asari smiled. "I strongly doubt Joker would let them even if they tried." Her brows knit, her expression becoming more serious. "It's not EDI I'm worried about. She was right, of course, to dismiss the Cerberus crew before the Alliance could take them prisoner."

"And the rest of us can go home to rally support for the fight," the quarian said. "I just wish we could be there for her, Liara."

James balked. Liara. He knew that name. Dr. Liara T'Soni had been Treeya's mentor, the prothean expert who had become obsessed with the sentient machine race called the Reapers. Neither Treeya nor James had bought that story before they had retrieved the data from the Collector ship. But after, Treeya had told him she was going to find Dr. T'Soni and help her. James wasn't completely surprised to feel his stomach clench with a hope that maybe she was on Omega and he could see her.

"Admiral Hackett said that the tribunal may see fit to call witnesses. I will gladly testify on her behalf, though I'm afraid it won't do very much good."

"You'll have your eyes and ears open throughout the trial?"

"Of course," said Liara T'Soni, touching the pistol at her hip. "Now, you had better take Legion to the docking bay. Take the alternate route. We're being followed, albeit clumsily."

Before she could turn, James ducked into a nearby stall. The batarian merchant cursed him, but he was out on the other side before he could take a swing at him.

Whatever that _extraño_ trio had been into, Liara at least had spoken to Admiral Hackett of the Fifth Alliance Fleet. That was big shit, whatever it was. Definitely more than just a smuggling deal, James decided. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his new coat, his thoughts shifting to where to eat before heading to Fuselage for a couple of early evening rounds of Skyllian Five.

"Raise," said James, dropping another credit chit into the center of the table. "A hundred credits."

Narlin sniggered and slid his own chit into the pot. "Raise," he growled. "Three hundred."

James whistled, feigning shock. He had sunk three times that into his jacket and nearly half so much into lunch earlier. Three hundred meant little to him in the long run. He pushed another chit into the pot.

The turian folded, leaving only one other batarian, a massive specimen who worked in Aria T'Loak's security detail. "Raise a hundred," he rumbled as he added his chit.

James didn't bother to look at his hand, instead taking a slow sip of beer and glancing around the cramped taproom. Most of the patrons kept to themselves, their business, and their own drinks. The krogan bartender was polishing glasses, occasionally glancing up at the news feed on the vid screen next to the bar. The report for the last half hour had outlined the startling percentage of fatal cases of Kepral's Syndrome among drell.

"Breaking news in the story of the Alpha Relay Disaster," read the newscaster, his deep voice booming compared to the soft-spoken correspondent on Kahje. "Commander Shepard, the first human Spectre and hero of the Battle of the Citadel, has been taken into custody by human Systems Alliance officials."

Brows knit, James looked over at the vid.

"Details are still coming in, but it has been confirmed that the Citadel Council has revoked Commander Shepard's Spectre status. Formal charges have yet to be made, but Shepard is alleged to have been working with the notorious human terrorist group Cerberus to carry out the attack that destroyed the Bahak System."

_The hell she did_, James thought, anger beginning to roil in the pit of his stomach. Shepard may have dropped off the map for a couple of years, but there was no chance she had joined Cerberus. She had been instrumental in taking down some of their major operations. James clearly remembered reading the feeds about it before the news about Saren broke.

"Batarian officials are already demanding retribution," the reporter continued. "Jenyr Al'thad, Speaker for the Batarian Hegemony, stated earlier that the batarian people deserved to receive Shepard's head—"

"It's your bet, human," said Narlin as James was getting to his feet. He ignored the merc, stalking over to the bar instead.

"Change the channel," he growled to the bartender.

The krogan gave him an impassive look that said, _I've dealt with worse than you_.

His temper flaring, James snapped, "Change it. We've heard enough."

"Leave it," hissed a batarian at the bar.

James shot him a glare before turning back to the bartender.

"Patrons like the news," he rumbled with a shrug.

Pushing away from the bar, James went over to where the vid screen hung on the wall. Grabbing it with both hands, he ripped it away. A shower of sparks rained over his arms.

"Hey!" roared the bartender. "That's gonna cost you, kid!"

"Take my winnings," James snarled in reply.

"You haven't won anything yet—" Narlin started, but James had already stormed over and slapped his cards down on the table: a royal flush.

"Keep the difference," he yelled to the bartender. "As long as I don't have to listen to that _mierda_."

James made to walk out, but Narlin placed a hand on his chest. "Not so fast, _my friend_. I would hate to learn that you're a Shepard-lover. After all these good times we've had together."

"Get out of my way, Pretty," he growled in warning.

"You don't think the batarians deserve some payback?" said the massive batarian who had been playing with them, getting to his feet. James had nicknamed him Security because of his job.

"Why don't you two just get back to your game and I'll go my way?"

"Not this time, human," Narlin said, drawing the curved knife from his belt.

"I'll dance if that's what you want," said James, taking a long step back. The first slash of the knife missed his neck by millimeters, but the vid screen connected with Narlin's face with a resounding _crack_ and the splintering of glass. The merc stumbled back, but shook it off, charging again.

This time James caught his knife with the screen, twisting it out of his hands. "Sorry, Pretty," he said as he slammed blade and screen into Narlin's chest. With a gurgle of blood and saliva, the three-eyed batarian collapsed to his knees.

James stood, panting, next to the corpse, but he never took his eyes off the batarians who were appearing from other corners of the bar to join Security.

"Careful," snarled the one who had been sitting at the bar. "He's human military."

Reaching up to his chest, James grasped his ID tags. Usually he kept them tucked into his shirt, not wanting to draw unwanted attention on the station, but they had slipped out during the scuffle.

"You're damn right I am," he barked.

"You Alliance scum," said Security. "You're all the same. Think you're so much better than us."

James shrugged. "Better _looking_."

"We'll see how you look after we—"

He didn't wait for the batarian to finish. With a roar, he charged, tackling him through the glass of the window behind them and down a floor onto the street below. They hit the ground hard. Though Security took the brunt of the impact, James felt the air rush out of his lungs.

Rolling to his feet and coughing, he wiped a rivulet of blood from his face. Looking down, he spotted a few tears in the leather of his jacket from pieces of broken glass. "_Hijo de puta_!" he yelled at the three batarians jumping over the window and into the street. "This is a brand new jacket."

"Get him!" howled one of the batarians.

He grabbed James by the arms, but James sprang up against him, putting his boot heel right into the face of one of the others. Flipping the batarian over his back, he ducked under a blow. He elbowed that second batarian in the neck, sending him reeling and gasping for breath.

James had sunk down into a crouch just as another charged him. He had braced, ready to grapple, when a flash of blue sent the merc flying into a nearby dumpster. The batarian slid down, unconscious. The others, recognizing that they were outmatched, scrambled to their feet and hobbled off.

Rolling his shoulders—he'd have a few good bruises in the morning—James called out, "Hey, thanks."

"Don't mention it." The reply came from a figure emerging from the shadows of the alley. James recognized him from the recent vid coverage of his induction into the Council Spectres. He was shorter than James had imagined, but Major Kaidan Alenko in full battle dress, his left fist glowing a faint blue, was pretty damn imposing.

James snapped his heels and saluted. "Major."

"As ease, Lieutenant," said Alenko, surveying the broken glass and blood that speckled the street. "I have to admit, Vega, when I got the order to find you here, I actually thought I might have had to look."

"Glad to hear I made your job easier, sir," James replied, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"You're lucky this is Omega or you might actually have had to pay for all this."

James shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time, sir."

Alenko's brows rose. Shaking his head, he said, "Lieutenant Commander James Vega, I've been ordered to escort you to Alliance Judicial Headquarters in Vancouver where you are to report for duty."

James balked. Earth? There was nowhere near enough action on the homeworld to merit the attention of an N6, let alone a Spectre. "Permission to speak freely, Major?"

"Granted."

"My leave's not up for another two days. And who in the hell sends a Spectre to find a grunt like me?"

Alenko gave him a half smile. "Get your gear together, lieutenant. I'll explain en route."

"Yes, sir," James muttered as he set off at a jog toward Kenzo District.

* * *

"You'd actually want to stay here another two days?" Alenko asked as they strode into James' room.

"Omega kind of grows on you," James as he shed his jacket and headed for the bathroom. "If you like cheap beer, poker, and bar fights, that is." He gave Alenko a knowing smile in the mirror. "You a brawler, Major? Got one hell of a left hook."

To his surprise, Alenko laughed. "A…friend of mine used to say the same thing."

James noted his hesitation. "Did she now?" he said under his breath, trying to imagine what Alenko's type might be. Louder, he continued, "Ah, but I guess they teach biotics 'with power comes great reasonability' and all that?"

"Something like that," said Alenko.

James splashed water over his face to wash off the blood. His forehead stung where the cut was, but it was less than a millimeter deep and had already stopped bleeding. Tugging off his plain black tee shirt, he used it to dry his face.

"So, Major," he asked, sauntering back into the bedroom, "what's so urgent that the brass sent _you_ to all the way out here for _me_?"

Tossing his dirty shirt and other clothes into his standard issue duffle, he pulled on an undershirt emblazoned with the insignia of the Alliance. He replaced his jeans with blue and black duty fatigues. Tucking them into his boots, he sat on the edge of the bunk to lace up.

"My orders came from Councilor Anderson," Alenko said. "Yours come from Admiral Hackett, with Anderson's approval."

James got slowly to his feet. "You mean to tell me that _Hackett_ and _Anderson_ requested me specifically?"

"You have an impressive service record, Lieutenant. You received top marks from your supervisors at Interplanetary Combatives Training in Rio. Your success on Fehl Prime—"

"I get it," snapped James, fastening his belt. "So is this next mission part of my training?"

"I can't answer that," Alenko admitted. "I was told to bring you to Vancouver for duty. That's as far as my clearance goes."

James' brows shot up. "There's clearance above a Spectre's?"

"My Spectre status doesn't give me access to Alliance records beyond my rank," he replied. "I've got the same clearance as any other major."

James had to admit he was surprised. From the reputation Spectres had, they were in on everything. Shrugging inwardly, he pulled on his fatigue jacket and slung the duffle over his shoulder. "Ready when you are, sir."

They didn't have to jog far to reach Docking Bay 47. They were greeted at the outer airlock door by two marines, both armed to the teeth. Glancing out the window, James spotted a small ship painted in gray and green. The name on the hull, in black, read _SSV Virmire_.

"She's a ten-man corvette," Alenko explained as they went through decontamination protocol. "Good size for my squad and small enough to enter atmo quietly. She's equipped with quantum entanglement communication, which we'll use to link to Anderson so he can brief you."

_This day just keeps getting better_, James thought. First that conversation in the Markets, the brawl with the batarians, a Spectre showing up as an escort, and now he was supposed to have a heart-to-heart with the Council's representative for his entire species. He was glad he'd stuck to beer during the card game.

He followed Alenko through the CIC of the corvette, duly impressed by the clean newness of it. The sailors they passed were working at their various consoles, though they nodded if they met his eyes. It was clear the major ran a tight ship, though at least no one saluted as they walked by. Any CO that made his crew salute him at every turn was just looking for a cock stroke. It didn't win loyalty, that was for damn sure.

"Pearson," said Alenko to a slight young woman of no more than twenty, "take Lieutenant Commander Vega's things to his bunk."

As James handed over the duffle, she flashed him a smile. "Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Commander."

"Uh, thanks."

"Lawrence, establish the connection for vid-com," Alenko called to a brawny crewman in a headset.

"Aye, sir."

"Right in here, Vega," said the major, leading him into the briefing room. "The link will be up in a few seconds. Anderson will terminate it when he's done with you."

"Thank you, sir," said James, holding out his hand.

Alenko shook it and went out.

James looked around the room. He contemplated sitting in one of the chairs that surrounded the conference table, but he didn't want to look at ease in front of Anderson.

He shook his head, hoping the councilor still used military protocol for exchanges between superiors and subordinates. Otherwise James wouldn't have a snowball's chance in hell of not screwing up during the conversation and causing a diplomatic indecent…or whatever.

_Dios_, how did he end up in this—

His thoughts were interrupted by the mechanical buzz of the conference table being lowered into the floor. A lattice of blue appeared above it.

"Step into the grid so I can see you, Lieutenant Commander," said a deep voice he recognized from the speeches.

Moving onto what had been the tabletop, James looked around. In front of him was a projection of Councilor Anderson standing with his hands at his sides.

"Sir," James barked, saluting.

"At ease, Vega. I'm sure you're wondering by now what this is all about." After a moment he added, "Permission to speak freely."

Clasping his hands behind his back, James said, "Yes, sir, I am. An hour ago I was on leave."

"I apologize for that. I'll see to it that the time is made up."

"I don't care about that, sir," James said. "I'd just like to know what's going on. I'm not the kind of soldier Alliance Command or the Council sends Spectres to retrieve."

Anderson nodded. "I understand your confusion, lieutenant, but this is a matter of some sensitivity and we needed to move quickly. As you've probably heard, Commander Shepard has been taken into Alliance custody on terrorism charges."

James nodded, his thoughts turning inadvertently to the holes in the leather of his jacket the damn batarians had caused. Well, he _had_ been the one to tackle one of them through the window…

"As far as we know," Anderson continued, "and that's pretty damn far, the accusations are false, but the whole situation bears some explanation. For the past two years Shepard has been working for the Spectres as a deep cover operative within the Cerberus organization. Her death was, of course, fabricated so that she could get off the grid for a while, build up some trust with her targets. It was through her connections to Cerberus that she was able to bring down the Collectors."

James felt the familiar twinge of guilt when he thought about the Collectors, the data, and Fehl Prime, but he pushed it to the back of his mind.

"The details of the Alpha Relay explosion are a bit hazy still," Anderson said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "but once we get Shepard planetside, we'll be able to sort that out. She'll have to face an Alliance tribunal, and the planning process for that can take months. In the meantime she will need to be housed in a secure facility and guarded. That's where you come in, lieutenant. Your sole duty for the next several months will be to serve as personal guard to Commander Shepard during her incarceration."

_Yep, this day is shaping up to be a real shit show. _"'Personal guard,' sir?"

"Where she goes, you go. She'll have her own quarters, of course, but anytime she leaves them you are required to accompany her. Generally, she'll only be expected to attend hearings. She'll have very limited visitation privileges."

James ran his tongue over his front teeth thoughtfully. Part of him was certain that any time he would wake up in an alley outside of Fuselage with a raging headache, having had hallucinated this entire experience. But the opposite part was intrigued. He would gladly sit down with any marine hero and listen to a few hours of stories, but to get a few months to pick Commander Shepard's brain…

"If you're concerned about your pay, Lieutenant," said Anderson, "it will remain the same."

"Thank you, sir, but that's not a problem."

"Then what is it, Vega? You've got something on your mind. Just say it."

There were a hundred things going through his head rapid fire, but he managed to say, "Before…I was slated for field placement with an N7."

He could have sworn he saw Anderson smile, but his face was stony again before he could be sure.

"You'll get your field experience, lieutenant. But for now, Commander Shepard is the most decorated N7 in the Alliance. Pay attention and you might just learn something from her."

James nodded. He should have been relieved that he didn't have to command again. He had wanted a way out that didn't involve leaving the Alliance, and now that he had gotten it he was asking about the very training he had been trying to avoid. "Is there anything else, sir?"

"No, Lieutenant, that's all I have. Major Alenko will make sure you get to the right people in Vancouver. If you have any other concerns, take them to Admiral Okonjo. She's in charge of the Judicial Division. She'll see that I get the message."

"I'll do that, Councilor."

"Vega."

"Sir?"

"Shepard has been through a lot in the past forty-eight hours. She's going to need some time to work through it. Be patient with her."

James was surprised to hear the concern in Anderson's voice. He wondered what their history was.

"I'll do my best, sir," he said honestly.

"That's all we can ask you for, Lieutenant. Anderson out."

* * *

**Okay, some notes on this AU:** Obviously this draws on material from _Paragon Lost _and _Mass Effect: Conviction_, but I replaced Anderson with Kaidan because in this Shepard's canon, she made Anderson councilor. He'll resign later so that he's on Earth when the Reapers hit, but to have him on Omega to pick up James would be ridiculous. He should still be involved, though, so therefore it made sense for him to order the newly-minted Spectre Kaidan Alenko to go get the job done in his stead. Again, this breaks from canon, as Kaidan is offered Spectre status by Udina after he is injured on Mars, but I thought that that timing in the game was really random. In this AU, he was made a Spectre earlier after proving himself during the Collector War.

**Definitely don't believe what Anderson tells James!** I did not get my canon heinously confused. It's all lies because trying to explain the drama with Shepard's death and her connection with Cerberus in a briefing would be impossible and even more confusing for James, who already is struggling to figure out what all this is about. He will find out, of course…later.

P.S. My knowledge of Spanish comes primarily from Google Translate. Please feel free to offer corrections and advice if you are better at Spanish than me. Seriously, I will only thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A number of the servicemen in the CIC looked up when James walked out of the briefing room. He wondered just how rough he looked. He had washed his face after the fight, but no one came out of a bar brawl—the good ones at least—without a few bruises. He thought of Major Alenko, who had done everything but wrinkle his nose at the idea of getting into a fight just for kicks. He was an Academy-type, though, started out as a commissioned officer rather than as an enlisted man. They functioned on a whole different level. More dignity, less fun.

James had worked his way up through the ranks, becoming an officer on merit rather than commission. He took his job seriously, but whenever the pressure got to be too high he always went back to brawling. It was the best way to get his head clear. Not even sex could do it. That wasn't to say that he hadn't tried, but a civilian woman who didn't mind getting rough when he was in a mood was hard to find.

There were a few women in his unit that he guessed would have had the fire in them when they got in the sack, but he wasn't one to break regs. Fraternization got you in shit far deeper than a couple of days in the brig for fighting.

"Lieutenant Commander Vega."

He turned, spotting the girl that had taken his duffle earlier. She had olive skin and tight, dark curls held back in a puff at the nape of her neck.

She saluted smartly. "I'm Serviceman Second Class Emily Pearson. Major Alenko asked me to make sure you get where you need to go while you're aboard the _Virmire_. I can show you to your bunk, or to the mess if you haven't had anything to eat. I'm not sure what the time is back on Omega, but it's 2247 Terran Coordinated Universal."

At the mention of food James' stomach rumbled enthusiastically. "The mess," he said, "please."

She gave him a toothy grin. "Right this way."

They went down a set of stairs and aft. The mess was on the second of three decks, between the third and fourth bulkheads, as Serviceman Pearson explained. The _Virmire_ had been built specially for reconnaissance missions in atmo, though she was only one of a group of sister vessels that had been produced. As she was the prototype and the most unwieldy, she was sold to the Council for their Spectres to use. But, those who wanted them already had ships or shuttles of their own, so she sat in dry dock for almost year before Major Alenko requested her.

"He was the one who gave her a name, actually," Pearson said as she sat down across from James at one of the crew tables. "After the planet where one of his good friends was killed in action."

James, having filled a plate with buns and Sloppy Joe sauce, could only nod in acknowledgement as he chewed. Every marine knew about Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams, who had stayed behind on Virmire to ensure that Commander Shepard and the rest of her team got off planet in time to catch the rogue Spectre Saren Arturius. She had been posthumously awarded both the turian Nova Cluster and salarian Silver Dagger for her service, the first human ever to receive either.

The ceremony had been on the vids, of course. Her sisters and father had been there to accept the awards in her name. Some people said that cowardice ran in her family—her granddad had been the one to surrender the garrison on Shanxi during the First Contact War—but no one would have dared question them after she died a hero.

One of her sisters had just enlisted and was standing next to their father in her duty fatigues. James wondered idly what had happened to her in the past two-and-a-half years.

"How long you been serving under the Major?" he asked Pearson, who couldn't have been much older than the Williams girl.

"Only three months," she replied. "But it's a good posting. We see lots of action with a Spectre."

He grinned. "I bet." James had always requested the posts that involved the most ground time. Couldn't bear to be cooped up for too long. Thinking of spending months as a glorified babysitter, even one for Commander Shepard, made him tense.

"You're spec ops, right?" Pearson said. "N…"

"Six."

"Damn," she said, shaking her head. "I don't think I could handle going groundside in a fight unless I had to. I'm in navigation."

"Well, I don't think I could plot a course worth a damn," James laughed, "so I guess we're in the right places."

Pearson smiled. She was cute, in a little sister sort of way.

James swallowed heavily as April's face flashed through his mind. She was the ten-year-old daughter of Christine, one of the leaders of the colony on Fehl Prime. From the moment Delta Squad had arrived, she had latched onto James and peppered him with questions about the Alliance marines. She wanted to be one, she said, as she sat on his shoulders and straightened his Mohawk.

Once, one of the researchers had told him, "I'd swear she was your little sister." James had felt almost like she was. He had wanted to be there when she finished high school and go with her and her mom when she boarded the transport to West Point back on Earth. She'd be a commissioned officer, starting out as second lieutenant rather than private second class like he had. She'd have her own boat, and one day he'd be the one saluting her. But she had died with the others when the Collector ship went down.

"All I ever wanted to do was see the stars," Pearson said, drawing him back to the present. "I've had a telescope since I was kid. When I got the scholarship to the Naval Academy on Earth, it was…amazing. It was too bad I was still in school during the Collector War. I wanted to get out there and help defend our colonies."

"You'll get your chance," James said, frowning down at the food he was no longer hungry for. Picking up the plate, he got to his feet. "So, about that bunk…"

"Right," said Pearson, chewing her lip in apparent confusion at his sudden disinterest in the meal and the conversation. "Come this way."

He had been assigned a space in the back of the crew quarters, a bottom bunk. His duffle was stowed under it. There were several sleeping forms in the room, so Pearson simply pointed to where he needed to go, gave a relaxed salute, and disappeared.

James wasn't sleepy, but he removed his boots and laid back on the pillow, his hands behind his head.

He knew what it was like to be an untried kid right out of basic, eager to make a name for himself. Even now, he had no problem following the order that could mean glory or the grave, but he wasn't sure he could ever send a girl like Pearson into something knowing she wouldn't come back. He wouldn't ever command again, he knew it. He'd leave that to the higher-ups...like Shepard.

His brows knit as he thought of the her. So, she had been undercover with Cerberus. That made sense. Lots of Spectres did high-stakes work like that. But something he had heard in the news report in Fuselage niggled at the back of his mind: "It has been confirmed that the Citadel Council has revoked Commander Shepard's Spectre status."

Why would Anderson allow her to be suspended from duty if he and the rest of the councilors had sent her on the mission in the first place? Anderson had described their intel on the Bahak System attack as "hazy." Did he actually think that maybe Shepard had gone rogue and joined up with Cerberus?

James almost laughed aloud at the thought. She had been the one to take down a rogue Spectre; the chances of her becoming one were slim to none. But, then again, he didn't know anything about her aside from her military record.

Frowning, he thought back to the bar on Omega. He had killed Narlin defending the honor of woman he didn't even know.

"_Honra_," he breathed as he closed his eyes.

* * *

Hours later, he was woken from a light sleep by Pearson. "We're just about to dock in Vancouver, Lieutenant," she said. "Major Alenko would like to see you on the bridge."

Nodding, James slid his feet into his boots and laced them. He followed Pearson out, glancing once at the clock on his omni-tool. It read 1056 TCU. They had flown through the night cycle and part of the morning.

Alenko was waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, in the CIC when James arrived. "Lieutenant, I hope you got some shuteye because it's about to hit the fan. After we dock, you are to report directly to a Lieutenant Yang. I assume he'll be waiting for you. The _Virmire_ doesn't have clearance to dock longer than it takes to get you off the ship. Security is tight around here."

"Major," said a woman's voice from over the intercom, "traffic control is hailing us, requesting that Lieutenant Commander Vega be prepared for disembarkation immediately upon arrival. We're to keep the engines hot. And they weren't very polite about it."

"Copy that, Krawiec." He turned to James. "You'd better grab your gear, double time."

With a nod, James jogged back down toward the crew quarters. Pearson, though, intercepted him on the way and handed him his duffle.

"Good to meet you, Lieutenant Comannder," she said. "Stay safe out there."

"You, too, Serviceman," he said as he hastened back up to the CIC. Alenko hurried him over to the forward airlock.

"Thanks for the ride, sir," James said.

"When you see her," said the major, as if he hadn't heard, "tell Shepard…tell her we're with her." His expression was dark, but his eyes were insistent. "I want your word that you'll tell her, Lieutenant."

James knew that Alenko and Shepard had served together on the mission to take down Saren, but something in his tone suggested something more than professional respect. Putting his curiosity aside, he said, "You have it, sir."

"Docked and ready for offloading, major," said the helmsman. "Opening airlock doors."

With a last nod at Alenko, James strode over the threshold and onto Terran soil.

"Lieutenant Commander Vega," said a small man to the right of the gangway. He wore black slacks striped with blue and the formal jacket of a Naval lawyer.

"Lieutenant Yang?"

"That's right. Let's get clear of this area so the _Virmire_ can get off world. Admiral Okonjo isn't particularly fond of Spectres, even the human ones."

James followed Yang out of the open-air docking bay, though he wasn't eager to leave the smell of pine that permeated the air. It wasn't artificial either. Damn, it was good to be back on Earth.

Once they had entered the building, the noise and wind from the thrusters of the _Virmire_ ceased, creating a sudden calm in the empty hall.

Yang held out his hand. "Good to meet you at last, Vega. You came highly recommended for this position, by Admiral Hackett himself. Okonjo said one of these days she'd like to have you up for dinner. She likes to know her staff. But for now, we need to get you to your quarters so you can wash up and get some food before you need to report. You like waffles?"

Yang led the way through a maze of corridors and halls, some busier than others. They went up five floors on an elevator, which deposited them in a wing labeled "Officers." The door they finally stopped at, number 520, was near the end of the hall.

"Just a thumbprint scan will open it up," said Yang.

James placed his right thumb on the scanner and the door slid open. The room was a hell of a step up from the piss heap he'd been staying in on Omega. The gray carpet was clean and it bore the insignia of the Alliance in the space between a small sofa and a vid screen. There was a desk and private terminal, a full sized bed, and—from what he could see—a real bathroom. The majority of the back wall was taken up by a window that looked out onto downtown Vancouver.

"You can get your three squares down in the officers' mess," said Yang. "There's a full gym reserved for us as well. It's in the basement of the building. You're on the roster, so just go through the print scanner. I'll show you down there in a few minutes, but if you'll follow me for now…"

James dropped his duffle next to the bed and tailed Yang out into the corridor again. They didn't have to go far, though, approaching the door of the room directly to the left, 522.

"You'll have to open this one," said Yang. "Full palm scan and retina. Only you and Admiral Okonjo have access."

Inside, the room was identical to James'.

"This is where Commander Shepard will be staying," Yang explained. "The rooms aren't connected, but she has a direct comm link to your omni-tool via her terminal. I doubt she'll need to use it much, though. The tribunal won't start for a couple of months, so she won't need to be escorted out of her quarters. You can send down to the mess to have meals brought up for her."

James' brows shot up. "You mean she can't leave, even to eat?"

"Unfortunately not, Lieutenant. She is strictly confined to quarters."

"Isn't that presuming she's guilty before her trial even starts?"

Yang shrugged. "It's standard procedure. She's lucky to be assigned a room of her own. Most defendants are held in the brig."

_Jesus_. _This is _loco._ She's a hero and she's being treated like a criminal._

"Well, Vega, you're to report to Docking Bay C6 at 1200 hours. In the meantime, I'll show you down to the gym."

* * *

Yang had left him in the mess, but James hadn't been hungry enough to take anything. Instead, he went back up to his quarters and did a hundred push-ups to work off some of his tension. Then he stripped and turned on the shower.

He stepped into the scalding spray and, lowering his head, he allowed the water to massage the muscles at the back of his neck. He wondered for the hundredth time what the hell he was doing here. The day before he had been considering resignation and now he was getting ready to meet the most decorated soldier in the Alliance.

He wanted to know about her missions, he thought as he soaped up, what it had been like to take down Saren, the Collectors. Shit, he would listen to her talk about what she ate for breakfast if that's what she wanted to say. Maybe she'd even show him a couple of her scars.

As he worked the standard issue bar of soap over the tattoos on his arm, shoulder, and neck, he wondered if Shepard had any ink. It had been against regs back in the day to have visible tattoos as a marine, but that had changed in the last fifty years.

He had gotten his first after basic, while his squad had been cleaning up the mess in the Verge after the Blitz. The second about three years later, on leave on the Citadel. He'd been adding to them since. Like the scars, each one carried a story, but they weren't the kind he peeled back his sleeve to tell.

Turning off the water, James grabbed a towel and wandered back out into the main room, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the tile of the bathroom floor. He checked the time as he dressed, making sure he had a half hour to spare in case he got turned around trying to find the damn docking bay. Judicial Division Headquarters was a maze, he had discovered after following Yang down to the gym. It was a pretty nice facility and it would definitely keep him sane if he wasn't able to get out in the field.

Making his way out of his quarters, he navigated through the hallways and past numerous Navy personnel until he arrived at Bay C6. It was one of the upper, sealed bays in the hangar the _Virmire_ had docked in earlier. Standing by the window, he waited.

It wasn't ten minutes before he caught the glint of sunshine on a silver hull. She was painted like a Cerberus vessel, in white, black, and orange. James' eyes widened, though, when he saw the name emblazoned on her side.

The _Normandy_ had been destroyed, he remembered, when Shepard had been "killed," yet here she was, in pristine condition and armed with some of the baddest cannons he had ever seen on a frigate.

James watched as her helmsman guided her in for a flawless connection with the sealed airlock umbilical. Whoever was flying her had some pretty slick moves. As the yellow light above the inner airlock door began to flash, he turned toward it.

A minute or two later, the bay doors hissed open and a tall figure in dress blues strode through. James, who had been standing at ease, jumped to attention and saluted. "Admiral Hackett, sir!"

"Lieutenant Commander Vega," said the commander of the Fifth Alliance Fleet, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression stern. "You've been briefed?"

"Yes, sir."

Hackett nodded, his pale blue eyes steely. "I'm not altogether sure why Anderson chose you for this post, lieutenant, but he knows how to find good men and I won't be the one to question him." He sighed. "Commander Shepard is very important to a lot of people, Vega. To all of humanity. She's the best of us, and if she suffers for this, we stand to lose a great deal more than a good solider. Do you understand?

He didn't. Hackett's cryptic words could have meant anything, but he replied with the standard, "Yes, sir."

Taking a step forward, Hackett drew up next to James and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Take care of her."

James saw a brief glint of an emotion in Hackett's eyes that he himself knew well: guilt. In some way, he was responsible for what was happening to Shepard. There was definitely something Anderson had left out of that briefing.

"I'll look after her, sir," said James, as if he were assuring the father of a girl he was taking out that they would be back before curfew.

With a minute nod of acknowledgement, Hackett strode away. James turned and watched him for a moment. He moved with a slight stiffness in his hips, though his back and shoulders were straight. James had no particular fondness for naval officers—their boots never touched the ground—but he had to admire Hackett. He was exhausted, probably from hours of sleepless flight time, but he carried it like another ten pounds of armor: without complaint.

The fall of boots brought James' attention back to the airlock. Three figures made their way down the ramp, but his eyes were drawn immediately to the woman at the center. Her uniform was simple: a black and grey jacket piped with white, the orange insignia of Cerberus stamped above her heart. She was taller than he had expected, only two or three inches shorter than he was. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, but she carried herself like she was standing on the bridge of a ship; head up, shoulders square. The guards even walked half a step behind her, naturally falling in line.

She was looking around, assessing the room. James felt the corners of his mouth turn up. He did the same thing whenever he walked into a place. He looked for the exits, the shadows. When her eyes settled on him, though, the smile dropped off his face.

For the first time since Lola Ramos had turned her _tentador_ green gaze on him when they were teenagers, he felt a stab of nerves. He'd been a cocky kid. When he'd seen a girl he wanted, he just walked up, gave her a smile and dragged a knuckle down her cheek, calling her "_belleza_." It had usually done the trick right away—hell, it still did—but with Lola, his best friend's older sister, her frank appraisal had made him stop dead, feeling like no matter what he did, he would never be up to scratch.

Shepard's eyes were gray, though, not green, and there was a tiredness in them that wasn't the result of a sleepless night.

As the trio stopped a few paces from him, James saluted. "Commander Shepard," he said. "I'm Lieutenant Commander Vega, N6, and I'll be in charge of your security while you're here." He had chosen the words carefully, knowing that in her position he wouldn't have wanted to hear some dumb grunt call himself her "guard." It sounded smug, and she was the last person he needed to get high-handed with.

Holding his gaze, she nodded to him. James forced himself to look away and was about to tell the guards that he'd take it from there when Shepard beat him to the punch. She took a step forward, effectively placing herself in his charge rather than allowing him or the guards to transfer her.

It was an arrogant move, but it didn't seem out of place. Her authority had nothing to do with the uniform. Her posture, her movements, the intensity of her look…it all exuded command. She was military royalty, he remembered, the daughter of two frigate captains, one of them a hero of a First Contact War, and she wore it damn well.

The guards saluted—their eyes never leaving her—then turned on their heels and started up toward the airlock. Shepard watched them go, her expression blank. When she turned back to James, though, her eyes were flashing with fury barely suppressed. He understood. All she wanted was to get back to her ship, back into action. He wanted to say something, let her know he got it, but the words stuck in his throat. He was her jailer, not her friend. She didn't need his two cents.

"If you'll come with me, Commander…" he said, half-turning.

She looked once more at the airlock doors before falling into step beside him. They walked in silence from the docking bay to the officers' quarters. The few young soldiers they passed slid against the wall to let them by, their eyes going wide when they recognized Shepard. She looked past them. Once, James saw the muscles in her jaw flex as she clenched it, the only indication that she wasn't perfectly calm.

Stopping at her quarters, he scanned his right hand and retina. The holographic lock turned from red to green and the door slid open. Shepard went in ahead of him, and he didn't protest.

He watched her as she looked around. She cut a nice figure, all lithe strength under her uniform. She wasn't a knockout, but her face had clean, elegant lines: high cheekbones and forehead, sharp jawline, a nose that had been broken and healed so that it bowed out a little. She reminded him of…

Oh, yeah. It was almost three years ago now, the last time he'd been on Earth. He and a couple of buddies from his spec ops training unit had gone from Rio to Major Kalakos's parents' summer villa near Athens for a couple of days of shore leave. They'd been drinking weak beer and wandering the deserted streets for a couple of hours when Peterson—what a jackass he'd been—had pointed to the statue at the center of the square and told James to go give her a kiss.

"That's Athena," Kalakos had chuckled, "the goddess of war and wisdom. Maybe if you show her a good enough time, Vega, she'll move the heavens and put some brains between your ears."

He'd done it, of course, scrambling up the pedestal and planting a wet kiss on the statue's marble lips. Throwing an arm around her, he grinned. "What do you say now, _belleza_?" Though she had worn it for over two thousand years, it seemed like the small, knowing smile that touched her mouth was for him.

Give Shepard a toga, helmet, and spear, he thought, and she'd look just like her. The only thing that was missing was that smile.

"Commander." She turned. Taking a step toward her, James gestured to her bound hands. "I can take those off now."

Another wordless nod as she held out her arms. Putting his right thumb against the scanner on the cuffs, he released them.

Rubbing her wrists slightly, she turned away again and walked over to the window. Her form was dark against the brightness of the midafternoon sun—a pretty rare thing for Vancouver, or so he'd heard.

"If you need anything, ma'am," James said, "I'm in the next room. There's an intercom on your terminal. Just give me a shout."

He waited for a few seconds, but when she didn't turn or speak, he made for the door. As he activated the inner lock, though, he heard, "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"You're welcome, ma'am," he said as strode out and let the doors slide closed behind him.

* * *

James looked over at the clock on his private terminal again. 1741. It had been four hours since he left Shepard's quarters.

_Shepard_.

It was still a little surreal that she was in the next room over. He shook his head. Alenko, Anderson, Hackett, and Shepard in the course of twenty-four hours. At this point he honestly wouldn't have been surprised if the reanimated corpse of Jon Grissom came and knocked on his door.

He had tried, unsuccessfully, over the past few hours to nap, read, and surf the extranet, but the only thing he had been able to concentrate on for more than five minutes was the message he wrote to his uncle telling him he was doing a tour on Earth. If Anderson followed through on those two days of leave he had mentioned, James thought he could fly down to Escondido to visit. After all, he hadn't see Emilio since the day he went to basic…

_The heat poured into the car as soon as he opened the door. Getting out, James looked up at the gate: SYSTEMS ALLIANCE MARINE CORPS BASE CAMP PENDLETON. The sun-blasted stretch of road beyond it was guarded by eight soldiers—five men and three women—each carrying an M-7 assault rifle. They were watching him closely, ready to fire if his uncle's blue car rolled a millimeter over the red line on the road that read, "Military personnel only."_

_ "End of the line for me, _Toro_," said Emilio Vega, using James' old nickname. He had earned it by being as stubborn as a bull, or so his uncle had said. Emilio was his dead mother's older brother, and he had been the one to tell James to catch the first ride out of the Escondido projects as soon as he finished high school._

_He had shrugged back then, saying that he could get a job with his friend Antonio at the auto body shop._

"_You're a shit hand with tech, _Toro_," Emilio had said. "And if you stay here…"_

"_I'll never be like _Papá_!" James had snapped._

_After his wife Estela, James' mother, had died of cancer, Joshua Sanders hadn't bothered to go back to his job. Instead, he took his welfare checks to an alley behind the abandoned munitions factory and bought red sand. He threw weak knots of biotic energy at the crumbling building while his fifteen-year-old son worked as a stock boy at the grocery to make sure they could eat._

_When Emilo had gotten a call from the high school saying that James Sanders hadn't shown up to class in three weeks, he had stormed into the house in Solana Beach and hauled Joshua up by his shirt collar. James got his size from his mother's side._

"_I don't care what you do to yourself, _cabrón_," he growled, his face red with fury, "but if you compromise the future of my sister's boy, I'll make you suffer. You hear me?"_

_Joshua had muttered his agreement._

_Emilio had forced James to make up all the schoolwork he had missed and waited each term after that to see his report card. James never scored top marks, but he did well enough to make the Alliance recruiter raise her eyebrows as she looked over his transcript._

"_You sure you don't want to apply for the fleet rather than the infantry?" she had asked._

_James had shaken his head. He was a pissed off kid who just wanted to hit something, and the marines were the hardest hitting humans in the galaxy._

_With a shrug, she had stamped his application with APPROVED and told him where and when to report for basic training._

_Hands in his pockets, Emilio came around the passenger side of the car. "You ready?" he asked, giving James a lopsided smile._

_He shrugged. "Does it matter? I'm here now."_

"_If you're having second thoughts, _Toro—_"_

"_No, _Tío_. __You were right. This is my ticket out."_

_ Emilio nodded. "Then give me a damn hug and get in there." As James embraced him, he said, "Your mother would be proud of you. I am, too."_

_ "_Gracias, Tío_," __he replied, his voice choked._

_ As they stepped apart, James saw that there were tears in Emilio's eyes. He had been more of a father than Joshua ever had. To make it official, James had put his name down on the application as Vega rather than Sanders._

"Ir ahora, Toro_."_

_Turning, James made himself walk toward the gate._

_One of the marines, brandishing a clipboard, came out to meet him. "Name?"_

"_James Vega."_

"_Yeah, I've got you right here. Go on through. Bus is waiting."_

_James nodded and took a step. He looked back a last time and saw his uncle leaning against the hood of his car. He raised his hand in parting._

Over the past ten years James had written to his uncle pretty often. Emilio always mentioned how Joshua was doing, but James had never once bothered to send him anything. His father could go to hell, but it would be good to see Emilio again. If he even got leave from this job, that was.

Frowning, his thoughts turned back to Shepard. He hadn't heard a sound from her quarters, not even the flush of the toilet. If it was him being taken off duty and locked up under false pretenses, he'd be cussing and wrecking something. But she had just strode in and looked out the damn window. Every marine he knew was stoic, but she had a poker face like a brick wall. He didn't have any idea what to make of her.

Looking at the clock again, he sighed. His stomach had been rumbling for the past hour or so, but he had ignored it. Fed up with pacing around the room, he marched over to the door.

The officers' mess was a small cafeteria in the north corner of the building overlooking a large lawn dotted with shade trees. A few pairs of soldiers were jogging around the path that wound around it.

James walked over the counter and greeted the soldier there. Grabbing a plate, he loaded it with chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas. Taking another look at James, he added another chunk of meat and a third scoop of gravy.

"Thanks," James muttered, going over to an empty table by the window. A pair of naval officers were circling each other on the grass below, their hands in red boxing gloves. A few of their comrades were standing around to watch. James chewed, pondering again the differences between commissioned officers and the enlisted. He had always wrapped his knuckles before heading into the ring, but no one in his unit had ever worn gloves.

He watched the fight for a while, critiquing the combatants' form. They were both fairly good, but neither would have stood a chance against the worst of the guys in his unit. Maybe he'd wander down to the gym later and see if there was anyone who wanted to go a few rounds with him. Pacing around in his quarters with nothing to do had left him wound up.

He thought about Shepard, confined to quarters except for some hearings that could be months down the road. He wondered if she got antsy for action like he did. She was a marine, but she had been to West Point and had gotten a commission. Maybe she was like Alenko: lethal, but always under control.

James was just finishing up his dinner when another figure dropped down onto the bench beside him.

"Haven't see you around here before," said a lanky kid with a shock of blond hair. His uniform revealed him to be a second lieutenant. Fresh out of the Naval Academy, James was willing to bet. "Just land planetside?"

"Yeah."

"Marines by the look of you. What brings you to Vancouver? I'm just out of Annapolis, myself. Name's Robert Alistair, Judicial Division."

James raised an eyebrow. "JD, huh? I guess this is where you guys spend most of your time."

Alistair nodded. "It's where all the cases are tried. I'm on a minor one now. Assisting unfortunately. I won't be able to practice on my own for another year." Leaning in closer and lowering his voice, he said, "It's only scuttlebutt, but I heard that Commander Shepard is being transferred here for holding before her tribunal."

"Oh yeah?" said James, feigning interest. He figured he didn't need to advertise that Shepard was there or that he had anything to do with her. It would just lead to questions that he didn't think he could answer.

Alistair nodded. "You think it's true? That she blew up the Alpha Relay for Cerberus?"

James swallowed his last bite of potatoes slowly. "No."

"I don't either," said Alistair. "I mean, she's…well, a hero. How could she betray the Alliance now?" He raised his chin. "It'd be an honor to defend her."

James held back a smile. The kid had spirit. Maybe in ten years he'd be good enough to take on a high profile case like Shepard's.

"You been to Earth before?" Alistair continued, taking a bite of his peas.

"Born and raised," said James. "You?"

"Trident. I had never been here before basic. Are you glad to be back?"

"Yeah," he replied honestly. "I am."

Alistair smiled. "Going to be here long?"

"Dunno. It depends on…my CO." Speaking of Shepard, he figured he should bring her up something to eat. He got to his feet. "I've gotta get going. Good talking to you, Alistair."

"You, too, uh…"

"Vega."

Returning to the counter, James dropped his empty plate into a wash bin. "Hey," he called to the mess sergeant, "I need one to go."

The man rolled his eyes. "Against regs, marine. You eat here."

"It's for my CO."

"Send him down."

James bristled. "Sergeant," he snapped, "I would be more than happy to do that, but I don't think you want to explain to Commander Shepard why you made her wait for her dinner."

The soldier's eyes widened. "Uh, no, sir." Hurriedly filling a plate, he slid it over to James.

Still glaring, he took it and headed out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alistair staring at him open-mouthed.

Once he got back to the officers' wing, he rapped sharply on Shepard's door and waited. He could have just walked in, of course, but subordinates never entered the quarters of a superior without express permission. She may be his prisoner, but she still outranked him.

Figuring she hadn't heard, he knocked again, adding, "Commander? It's Vega. I've got dinner for you." There was no response. His brows knit. Using the meat of his fist, he gave another solid knock. When he didn't hear anything, he unlocked the door and strode in.

The room was empty.

Cursing, he looked around. The couch was unoccupied, the vid screen dark. The terminal on her desk was powered down. The bed was still made, but there was a pile of clothes at the foot. He recognized Shepard's Cerberus uniform. He was about to call for her when he heard the splatter of water against tile.

The bathroom door was closed, but there was a light coming from under it. She was in the shower.

"_Idiota_," he muttered, realizing that his heart had been racing. He contemplated knocking on the door to let her know he had brought her something to eat, but he decided against it. She had eyes. She'd get it when she got out.

With a sigh, he dropped the plate on her desk and headed out. Returning to his own quarters, he considered the prospects for the night. He could head down to the gym and spend a few hours working out, but after… Vids? A book? Exasperated, he fell back against the wall and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long, slow tour.

* * *

**Notes:**

Hackett on the _Normandy: _Since he was the last person to be on the ship in _Arrival_, I figured that he should be the one to arrest Shepard rather than Anderson (especially since Anderson is on the Citadel).

Alistair: I wrote this story long before I played _Dragon Age_ and had no idea there was an Alistair in it. Robert Alistair is not meant to resemble Alistair the Grey Warden, although he is blond. Weird coincidences, right?


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He felt the drop of sweat as it trickled down from his forehead, into the dark hair of his eyebrow, and then into his eye. The salt stung, but James ignored it as he pushed through the last three reps of his set. Blowing the air hard out of his mouth, he pressed his legs out a last time and then slowly let the weights back down. Grabbing the damp towel that hung around his neck, he wiped his face.

It was late afternoon and the gym was starting to fill up. He had noticed a trim officer in his early forties glancing over, calling an unspoken dibs on the leg press once James had finished. Getting to his feet, he smiled at the tightness in his quadriceps. They'd be pleasantly sore over the next two days; the mark of a good workout. He wiped the machine down before moving on.

Three days had passed since he had arrived in Vancouver. That first morning, he had risen at 0600 to get breakfast in the mess. Most of the other officers, he found out, were to report for duty by that time, and the best food was already gone…

_When the mess sergeant saw him, he frowned and filled a plate with the last of the eggs, bacon, and biscuits. Shoving the plate across to him, the sergeant said, "I'll make up something else for her. Give me twenty minutes."_

_James nodded and wandered over to a table. He got a glass of watery orange juice, drained it, and then filled it again before sitting down to eat. The eggs were the real thing, not the flavorless, synthesized fare he was used to while out on a mission. It wasn't anything near as good as the _huevos rancheros_ he made, but it was real food. The bacon was too black, but the biscuits weren't bad._

_Once he'd finished, he returned to the mess sergeant. The man was in his fifties, the stubble on his chin gray. He had the paunch of a solider whose talents did not lie on the battlefield._

"_You know you can just call down here to get something sent up," he said to James, presenting him with a laden tray. There was a bowl of oatmeal garnished with slices of banana and brown sugar, a small cup of milk, a plate with a fresh biscuit and three slices of bacon, a glass of orange juice, and a cup of steaming coffee. James doubted any of the soldiers that came through the mess would ever see anything of that caliber._

"_I'd just have to open the door anyway," he replied with a half shrug._

_The mess sergeant gave him a look. "If I had the chance to bring it in person, I would, too, son," he muttered. "She needs anything else, you let me know."_

_James narrowed his eyes. "What's it to you?"_

_The sergeant drew himself up to his full height—a full head shorter than James. "I was serving on the _SSV Raleigh_, Fifth Fleet, during the Battle of the Citadel three years ago. I don't for a god damned minute believe what the filthy batarians are saying about Commander Shepard. She's a hero. What she did in that fight saved the whole crew of my ship. The least I can do is make her what she likes to eat." He looked James hard in the eye. "She has any requests, lieutenant, you send them my way. Name's Randall. Sergeant Phil Randall."_

"_I'll make sure she knows that, sergeant," James said. Taking the tray, he made his way out of the mess and toward the elevators. He shouldn't have been surprised to find another soldier who sided so openly with Shepard. Most sailors and marines considered her, well, how Admiral Hackett had put it, "the best of us." Even after she had reappeared after two years dead, without any apparent explanation, the marines in his unit had broken out their flasks and drunk to her health. It would take more than accusations by the Batarian Hegemony to tarnish her reputation in their eyes. They would have to have hard evidence._

_James found himself wondering about the "hazy" details of the Alpha Relay explosion that Anderson had alluded to. Hackett, too, had been cryptic. He knew that a full debrief was way above his pay grade, but it wasn't hard to perceive that there was a lot more happening than he was privy to. He doubted that Sergeant Randall's loyalty to Shepard was misplaced, but he knew first hand that war sometimes warped a man's judgment. When it came between a cuff of data and an entire colony of people he had come to consider his friends, he had chosen the data and the life of one asari. If Shepard had had to make a call that led to the destruction of the Alpha Relay and thousands of batarian lives, the alternative would have had to have been infinitely worse._

_The _ding _of the elevator announced that he had arrived on the fifth floor. He made his way down the hall, knocking on Shepard's door. "Come in," was the muffled response. Opening the door, James strode inside._

_She was sitting behind the terminal at her desk, though she rose when James entered. The Cerberus uniform was gone, replaced by standard issue Alliance fatigues, boots, and a white and blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up above her elbows. James had to admit he preferred her in it. The Cerberus digs had given her an air of aloofness that hadn't seemed to fit her. Her hair was tied in a neat braid down her neck. The dark circles under her eyes were gone, but there was still a distance in them that suggested her mind was elsewhere._

"_Good morning, ma'am," James said, setting the tray down on her desk. "Here's breakfast. If you don't like it, the mess sergeant said he can just whip something else up for you."_

"_This is fine," she said, looking down at the food. "Thank you."_

_James waited a moment to see if she would say something more, but she remained silent, neither looking at him nor sitting down to eat._

"_Well," he said, unsure of what to do with his empty hands, "if you need anything, ma'am, just buzz me."_

"_Thank you, Lieutenant," was the only response._

When he had brought her lunch, and then dinner later that day, she had had the same two-word replies for him. She ate well enough, leaving nothing on the plates he took back down to the mess, but there was something weighing on her, that much he could tell. He had pulled up a couple of extranet vids of interviews with her. In all of them she had been animated, speaking with dignity, honesty, and even a little snark when that pushy _puta_ al-Jilani had tried to hassle her about putting alien interests above human. The Shepard in the room over from his was subdued; she hardly resembled the woman in the vids.

She had been through some real shit, Anderson had said, and needed time to get her head together. James got that, though being locked up in the bed and breakfast equivalent of the brig sure as hell wasn't his first choice of places to do it. He thought of Omega. It was supposed to have cleared his head, but he still saw the faces of his squad every time he closed his eyes.

He had stayed in his quarters those first two days, pacing and waiting for a buzz from the intercom, but there was nothing. Shepard ate when he did and never bothered him otherwise.

By the third day, he was so stir crazy that after lunch he went straight to the gym. He had been there now for three hours, working the tension out of his muscles and fighting the boredom with physical exhaustion.

"Vega!"

Turning at the sound of his name, James spotted a narrow-framed young man in a plain gray tee shirt and sweatpants making his way across the gym. He recognized Lieutenant Alistair, who had been sitting with him before he pulled the stunt with Shepard's dinner in the mess the first night on base. James had so far been successful at avoiding him, though he knew it would be impossible to maintain at the small Judicial Division Headquarters.

Scuttlebutt had spread across the entire base already, garnering James a number of curious looks as he ate his meals alone in the mess and then left with the tray for Shepard. The soldiers in the gym gave him a wide berth for the most part.

"I was hoping I'd run into you here," Alistair panted. He wagged an accusing finger. "You, sir, were not completely honest with me the last time we met."

Smiling one-sidedly, James replied, "Nope."

"I mean," Alistair continued, as if he had not heard, "you're the one in charge of Commander Shepard's security and you didn't say a thing. Admirable restraint, mate, but you could have let on a little. It's not as though her presence here is classified. What's she like?"

James shrugged. "I don't know really. I don't see a lot of her."

"Oh, come on," whined Alistair, making a face. "You have to at least have an impression."

He shook his head.

"You're a man of few words," Alistair sighed. "I can respect that."

James shot him a look. "I've been called a lot of things, but quiet isn't one of 'em. I just don't really know what you want to hear. I see her three times a day and our conversations usually consist of 'good morning,' 'thanks,' and 'goodnight.'"

Alistair looked affronted. "You mean you haven't even talked to her about Saren or Elysium or…anything?"

"I doubt she needs that right now."

"Are you seriously going to go months without saying anything of consequence to her?"

"I hope not," James said. It was an honest answer. Despite her coolness, he was curious about her, though not necessarily in the same sense that Alistair was. He didn't only want to hear about her missions so he could say that he had heard firsthand what it was like to storm the Collector homeworld and then blow it to hell. He wanted to know what kind of person could actually do it.

He wondered what it would be like to share the battlefield with her. Thinking of his own rifle, his fingers itching to feel its weight again, he tried to guess what gun she would reach for first. Was she a brawler? There was something about a woman who picked a fight. He thought of the statue of Athena, how much Shepard resembled the stone goddess. Seeing her in full armor with a rifle in her hands, the little knowing smile on her face, had to be something all right. Cracking his knuckles, James tried to push the thought out of his mind, but it stuck stubbornly. He needed to hit something.

He glanced over at Alistair. He was half a head shorter than James and a featherweight, but the small guys could be a challenge to catch. "You box, Pablo?"

Alistair cocked an eyebrow. "What did you call me?"

"Pablo," said James, clapping him on the back as he headed for the empty space of floor the officers used for sparring. "You look like a Pablo."

"You are a strange individual, Vega."

"That I've heard before." Picking up a set of gloves, he tossed them over. "So…you box?"

Alistair caught them, but barely. "Not lately."

"Up for a couple of rounds?"

"I suppose." He shrugged, though he was far from nonchalant. James watched as he took up a basic stance, his left foot a step ahead of his right and his fists up.

"Lefty, huh?" James said, rolling his neck and bouncing on the balls of his feet to loosen up. "They teach you to fight at the Academy?"

"No," said Alistair. "My mum's Irish."

"Right," James chuckled as he took up his own stance, right foot ahead and body pivoted slightly to the side. Irish blood or not, Alistair didn't look like he knew the first thing about boxing. His stance was too rigid, his guard too low. His prominent Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed nervously.

James took a couple of circling steps. Alistair moved with him, clumsily trying to keep the distance between them. James took a couple of test swings. Alistair managed to evade them, but without much room to spare.

"You've gotta relax," James said. "Pick your guard up a little, too."

Alistair's brows knit. "Are you trying to prep me on how best to get taken down?"

"I could," James said, flashing him a grin, "but I'm not. I just want to fight, and you wouldn't last half a round with form like that."

"Hey, it's been a long bloody time since hand-to-hand in basic."

"That's all the training you got?" James asked, taking a slow swing at Alistair's minutely improved guard. His gloves made contact, and the young lieutenant took a quick step back. "Damn, they really don't plan on sending you JD _pendejos_ into a fight do they?"

"Not typically," Alistair replied, attempting a hit in retaliation.

James dodged it easily, but said, "There you go, Pablo. Come at me again."

He lunged, hitting James' gloves and throwing himself off balance. Unable to resist the temptation, James caught him by the arm and flipped him onto the mats at their feet.

"I concede," Alistair said, breathless.

James laughed and pulled the glove off his right hand. Helping Alistair to his feet, he said, "Come on. One more time."

"As long as it doesn't end the same way," he grumbled. "My ego bruises easily."

Helping him up, James removed his second glove. "Well, in that case, we'd better start back at the basics: stance, guard, footwork. Here, put your feet a little wider apart." Taking up a left-handed stance, James demonstrated. Alistair mirrored him, managing well enough for a gawky kid. "That's better. Now, put your hands up."

Alistair obeyed, allowing James to position his arms and shoulders. "Where'd you learn to fight, Vega?"

"I got into my share of scrapes when I was a kid," he replied. "Thought I was pretty hot shit, but one of the guys in my unit—older guy, joined up after the factory he worked at shut down—used to box in the amateur leagues in his spare time. He used to put a hurtin' on the heavy bag that guys half his age couldn't match. After basic, we got assigned to the same detachment in the Verge. I had some time to kill after we got back to base at night, so I asked him to teach me. He wanted someone to spar with, so he agreed."

"Were you on that deployment for long?" Alistair asked.

"Longer than I would have liked," James grumbled. "It was patrol duty after the Blitz. Boring as hell. The only thing that made it bearable were the fights. After Private Eastman started training me, a few of the others decided to tag along. After a few months we had a regular fight night going. Decent betting pool, too. I made a few extra credits that tour." He grinned, holding up his hands. "Okay, Pablo, take a couple of swings. Put some power behind it."

It was simple to read in Alistair's movements where his blow would land, but it was a solid hit.

"Keep coming," said James. The kid may have been unfinished, but he had good instincts. He wondered if he himself had looked something like Alistair when he had started training. In a few months, James could see sending him into the ring and even putting a few credits on him.

"Did you ever get to fight your teacher?" Alistair asked between punches. "Beat him?"

"Hell yeah, I did," James laughed. "We fought every chance we got, and the bastard beat me every time for the first nine months. But, one night, after thirteen rounds and my third broken nose, I finally put him down. _That_ was a satisfying night."

"Are you still in touch with him?"

"No," said James. "I put in a for a transfer and got it. Eastman stayed on in the Verge. Hell, the old bastard might still be there." He shook his head. "So, how'd you end up in JD, Pablo?"

"Like most," he said with a shrug. "Law school is still one of the most expensive educations in Alliance space, so I joined up to pay my way through. Got a couple of scholarships and commendations while I was at the Academy, though, so even after I've served my obligatory five years, I'll likely stay on. I quite like it in Vancouver. Admiral Okonjo asks a lot of her people, but she only takes the best. Have you met her yet?"

James shook his head.

"You will. She likes to know her staff."

"Keep your shoulders back, Pablo," said James, bringing Alistair's attention back to the fight.

The young lawyer corrected his form immediately. "That better? You know something, Vega, I've half a mind to ask you to teach me to box like your Private Eastman. What would you say to that?"

James looked down his nose, saying, "What's in it for me?"

Alistair gave him a sly half-smile. "A regular sparring partner."

James held back a smile, forcing himself to keep a stony expression a smile, feigning disinterest for a moment before tried to guess what gun she reach for first. Was. "It's not going to be easy. We have to take you back to basics and you don't get days off. Think you can take it, Pablo?"

"Are you really going to call me that?" asked Alistair, making a face.

"You beat me in the ring," James replied, "and I'll call you whatever you want me to call you. Until then, you're Pablo."

"Very well," said Alistair, holding out his gloved hand.

James bumped his own glove against it. "All right. Let's get to work."

* * *

Alistair had taken that first workout seriously, even suffered through two hundred sit-ups and fifty pushups without complaint. James had done them right alongside him, of course, and by the time he made it to the showers half an hour before dinner, he was starting to feel the stiff soreness of double time in the gym.

By the next day, he was aching, but he returned to the mats in the afternoon to put Pablo through his paces. Poor kid could barely lift his arms, but James sent him to the heavy bag anyway. They spent thirty minutes jumping rope, thirty more running on the treadmills, and an hour foam rolling their muscles. That last bit was just as painful as any other part of the workout, but it helped the soreness in the long run.

It had been a week now that they had been training. Pablo was improving quickly, which James was pleased to see. A few of the other officers had seen them and had challenged James to a few matches. Some actually had experience, though none could keep up with him for longer than a couple of rounds. Once, though, he had let his guard down enough to let one of them pop him good in the left eye. It hadn't swollen shut, but the skin around the socket was green and black.

Once he left the gym each day, he would wander the compound. Most of place he didn't have clearance to access, but he had found a library and had downloaded a couple of military histories to keep him busy at night. He had never been much of a reader, but the detailed descriptions of the battles were pretty good.

Captain Toni had lent him a couple of books on strategy back when they had been serving together.

"For when you're in command," he had said.

James had only gotten through half of one of them. He had memorized their titles, though. Maybe he'd try them again once he was finished with _The Stand of the Fifth_. It was a complete chronicle of how the Fifth Fleet had coordinated with the Twenty-Fourth Citadel Fleet to take out the geth dreadnaught that had attacked the Citadel three years before. It was a little heavy on propaganda and a little light on facts about what the ship had actually been like, but the narrative of the movements of the individual vessels under Hackett's command was interesting.

James knew that Shepard had been on the ground inside the Citadel when it all went down. What a story that had to be. He frowned. He had still barely said a word to her, and her to him. Whatever was on her mind, she was keeping it to herself.

"Want to call it, Pablo?" James asked, looking down at him where he sat at the end bench press. "You can work the speed bag tomorrow."

"Yes, all right," Alistair replied, his voice flat, as if he had a cold. He was holding a bloody towel, and his thin, straight nose was swollen. His lips were streaked with red. "I'd better get washed up."

James nodded, glancing at the time on his omni-tool. He had twenty minutes to shower and get down to mess to pick up Shepard's dinner. He and Sergeant Randall had worked it out so that James arrived a half hour later than the rest of the officers and as he ate his portion, Randall put something together for Shepard. Most times it was just a little extra garnish to add to the regular fare, but Randall always made sure she had more than the rest of the JD.

"I've gotta get out of here, too," James said to Alistair. "Good fight today."

He smirked. "Right. See you tomorrow, Vega."

"Later, Pablo."

The fifth floor was deserted when he stepped off the elevator. The other officers generally came to their quarters only to sleep after their long days of litigation…or whatever it was they did. Everyone was up and gone by 0500 and usually didn't stumble back until after 2230.

James paused briefly outside of Shepard's door and listened to the muffled sound of a news vid. The galaxy was following the Alpha Relay disaster closely. It was impossible to avoid an hourly update no matter the channel. Though they had been largely ignored for a century, now the batarian Hegemony was getting enough press to weigh in on every issue. Shepard's name always came up, though, even if the conversation was about a group of batarian missionaries or right-to-farm laws.

There was a lot of speculation about her, but no one seemed to know where she was on Earth or when her tribunal would begin. James was glad for that. The last thing they needed was a pack of pro-batarian protesters camped out in front of JDH. Supporters had instead thrown their money into the several interspecies charities coordinating relief efforts for those rendered homeless by the loss of the Bahak System.

There was one spot of conspicuous silence, though. Everyone had been waiting to hear a statement from Cerberus, with some higher up in the organization claiming responsibility for the attack, but none had come. There was no denial either. There was nothing at all.

That sent a cold spike down James' spine. If Cerberus wasn't claiming to have destroyed the Relay, it could mean that they had known Shepard to be an undercover operative and had made her a scapegoat for their attack. He had to admit, if that was their play, it was a damn good one. The Relay was destroyed and Shepard would go down for it rather than Cerberus.

The Council had to have an ace up their sleeve, though. There was no way they were going to let one of their best Spectres take the fall. The tribunal would be a show trial. It would go on for a couple of weeks and then the Council would present their case. If they had enough evidence, maybe they could even turn the rage of the entire batarian species on Cerberus.

James smirked at the thought as he made his way into his quarters. _That would be a surprise for the bastards._ Stripping, he sauntered into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

He doused himself quickly with water before shutting it off to soap up. No matter how many times he reminded himself that this was Earth and that he didn't need to conserve as much hot water as he did aboard a starship, he couldn't break the habit of taking five-minute showers. There was something that just seemed wrong about standing under the spray for fifteen or twenty minutes like some of the JD guys did.

Back in basic, James remembered, there had been a lot of complaints about the restrictions. He had shrugged it off, though. Water was just another thing he had grown up rationing, like food and the meager paychecks he brought home from the grocery.

After changing into a fresh set of fatigues, he headed down to the mess to grab of plate of the shepherd's pie they were serving. Randall's special for Shepard included a plate of the same, but alongside the peas was a bowl of sliced kiwi. James had a particularly fond memory of the fruit. He had brought a bag of six ripe kiwis over to Lola Ramos' house one afternoon on his way back from work. They had sliced them all in half and eaten every single one before her parents got home. Her lips had been a little sticky and tasted of the sour tang of kiwi when she had kissed him.

James was still smiling to himself—reliving that kiss for the thousandth time since he was a teenager—as he knocked on Shepard's door. He was imagining the slightly calloused touch of Lola's fingertips on his neck as he strode inside. She had smelled like gardenias, and her green eyes had been wide open even as they pressed their mouths together. When they parted, she had said—

"That's a hell of a shiner, Lieutenant."

James looked up, his attention snapping sharply back to the room as he realized that Shepard had spoken to him.

She had been standing by the window, dressed in a black tee shirt and fatigues. As she came over, there was a small smile touching her lips. "What'd you do to earn it?"

The lingering heat of an old fantasy still ringing through his head and Shepard's face filling the space that Lola had occupied a moment before, he managed to say, "Let some _cabrón _get through my guard."

"There are other marines here?" Shepard asked, raising a single eyebrow. "Or did one of the lawyers get you?"

It took a second more than James would have liked for him to put together a coherent response. "Ah, well, yeah…it was one of the lawyers." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Ma'am."

Great. The first thing he got to tell Commander Shepard was how he got beat up by some scrawny JD kid. And to his horror, she laughed. It was a husky chuckle, though, that he liked immediately.

"I bet he didn't stay on his feet much longer after that."

"Yeah," James admitted. "He'll be a little out of it until tomorrow morning at the earliest."

"At least he'll be able to say he got the big, tough marine," Shepard said.

"Rub it in, why don't you," he muttered before he remembered to whom he was speaking. Straightening quickly, he said, "Commander."

Her smile faded. "I don't think you're supposed to call me that anymore, Lieutenant Vega."

James watched as she turned away from him, walking back toward the window. She was shutting down again, he could see it. He didn't have any right to press her, but he wasn't ready to go back to "please" and "thank you" yet.

"The way I learned it back in basic, ma'am," he said, standing as much at attention as was possible while holding a full plate, "is that until you're formally discharged, you are an Alliance marine at the rank of staff commander. As you are my superior officer, I am required, on pain of demerit, to address you as such…Commander."

She turned, her gaze intent. He looked back at her, unmoving. All the men and woman he had served under had had that same kind of look, as if they were see through you and zeroing in on any bullshit you might be trying to feed them. James had been called out a fair number of times for spouting shit he didn't mean, but Shepard seemed satisfied. Walking toward him again, she lifted the plate from his hand.

"At ease, Lieutenant."

He widened his stance and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Thank you," she said, looking down at the plate and then back up at James, "for always bringing my meals here."

"It's not a problem, ma'am."

She set the plate down on her desk and leaned back. "So, Lieutenant Commander Vega, N6, you're a boxer. And a good one, I would hazard."

"I can hold my own in a fight, ma'am," he replied.

"I'd put money on you," she said, one side of her mouth turning up.

James was jarred back into the past. His arms were wrapped around the stone goddess Athena, her marble smile still wet from his drunken kiss. Shepard wore that same expression now, sending an unusual chill down his spine.

"Uh, thank you, Commander," he replied. "I guess."

"Where do you fight?" asked Shepard, seemingly amused by his awkwardness.

"Down in the officers' gym."

She sighed. "I'd kill for a few rounds. I don't think I've ever been this bored."

"Yeah, me neither," James said. "Being cooped up in here is…well…"

"At least you can leave you cell." Looking around, she shrugged. "It's not the brig, but a gilded cage is still a cage."

James scratched the edge of the tattoo on his neck.

"Well," he said, "I can talk to the brass and see if I can get ahold of a treadmill. Probably not a gilded one, though."

Shepard's face brightened. "I would appreciate that, Lieutenant." She gestured to the terminal on her desk. "I only have access to public vids and news feeds. Story's getting old."

"Sure thing, ma'am."Looking at the plate on her desk, he said, "Better eat that before it gets cold."

"Doesn't taste any better either way," she said, but she sat and picked up her fork anyway.

"I'll leave you to it, then," said James, knowing when he was dismissed. As he headed over to the door, he glanced a last time over his shoulder. She gave him a salute with the fork.

When the door closed behind him, he fell back against it. He had no idea what had just happened, but somehow he started smiling. He had said more to Commander Shepard in the space of a three-minute conversation than he had all week. She had even laughed. Maybe there was hope of hearing some of her old war stories after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

_The low buzz of the scanner around Shepard's head lulled her, making her eyelids sink. She had been sedated for two days, but felt as though she had been awake for three. Glancing over at the Med Bay doors, she spotted Dr. Chakwas getting to her feet to greet the figure who had just come through._

_She sat up. "Admiral Hackett?"_

"_Shepard," he said as the doors closed behind Chakwas. "I see you've recovered. How're you feeling?"_

"_Like hell warmed over," she replied. "What are you doing here, sir?"_

"_The mission to Aratoht was a favor to me. I decided I should debrief you in person." He clasped his hands behind his back. "This was supposed to be quick and quiet, Shepard. What the hell happened?"_

_Sighing, she slid off of the examination table. "I confirmed Dr. Kenson's suspicions about a Reaper invasion. The Alpha Relay was their back door. Dr. Kenson's team had rigged the asteroid with enough power to destroy it. She had planned to evacuate the colonists, but time ran out. She was Indoctrinated."_

"_Oh god," Hackett said, looking down. "Amanda."_

_Shepard didn't miss the pain in his voice. He had cared about her as more than an 'old friend' then. She couldn't say she was surprised. Even though the regs were there, they didn't keep soldiers from loving each other. Her parents knew that firsthand, and so did she._

"_I had two choices, Admiral: let the Reapers come through or destroy the Relay," she said, turning away. "You know what I chose."_

_A few moments passed before Hackett spoke again, but when he did his tone was formal once more: "The batarians report no survivors from Aratoht. They want blood, and there's just enough evidence for a witch hunt."_

_ "Damn it!" Shepard cursed, slamming her fist into the table. The skin of her knuckles split, spilling hot blood down her fingers. She whirled around, advancing on Hackett. "The last thing we need is a war between the humans and batarians. I may have diverted the Reapers—delayed their arrival—but they're coming. If we start destroying ourselves first, we'll never be able to hold them off."_

_ "I know," he sighed. "Despite the Alliance's official stance on Sovereign and the Reapers, I believe you about them. If we were that close to invasion and you diverted it, even if only temporarily, I'd give you a damn medal, but not everyone is going to see it that way. Anderson is working on damage control, but you'll have to go back to Earth and face the music. This is the biggest scandal humanity has faced since the Blitz."_

_ "I bet the Alliance is glad I was working as a free agent," she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. She had not been welcomed back with open arms after the two years she spent half-dead on an operating table, especially since she returned insisting that everything the Council and Alliance had spent that time covering up was true._

_ Hackett's expression was grim. "They are, but Anderson is furious. He's defended you vehemently since the beginning, even in the face of you coming into port on a Cerberus vessel."_

_ "Cerberus were the only ones willing to do what it took to stop the Collectors," Shepard growled. "I don't subscribe to their agenda, but I'm not willing to stand by while the Reapers destroy the galaxy either."_

"_I'm not going to pretend I like Cerberus or how they operate," Hackett said, "but they brought you back and the gave you the resources that neither the Alliance nor the Council would. I respect that."_

"_It doesn't matter anyway," she said, shaking her head. "I'm finished with the Illusive Man."_

"_That's good to hear. Your association with them won't sit well with the tribunal as it is."_

"_Tribunal?" she interrupted, eyes narrowing. "You said it yourself before you sent me on this mission, I'm not a marine anymore. According to the Alliance database, I'm dead."_

"_It's a diplomatic tribunal. You may not officially be in the Alliance anymore, but you are still human. Earth has to take responsibility for you. It's not going to be pretty, Shepard. Three hundred thousand lives—"_

"_You think I don't know that!" she cried, her voice ringing with fury. "I'm burning up inside, Hackett. Three months ago I was a corpse. Today I signed the death warrant of hundreds of thousands, and tomorrow I'll go to Earth and be branded a terrorist and a traitor." She sank down onto examination table again, rubbing her face in her hands. Her entire world had been turned upside down the day she woke up in a Cerberus lab. Working with them had been an arrangement of convenience, but now it looked as though she would hang for it. She felt Hackett's hand as it came down on her shoulder, but she didn't look up._

"_Anderson is doing all he can to keep that from happening," he said. "But for now the Alliance will house you securely until the tribunal." _

_Taking a deep breath, she nodded. "All right. I'll go with you. Right now. But my crew goes free."_

"_That I understand, but the ship comes with us."_

"_Joker won't leave her," said Shepard. "If Normandy goes, so does he, and Joker does _not_ face charges. As far all the Alliance is concerned, he was coerced into serving on this ship. By me if it comes to it."_

"_Agreed."_

"_We'll drop the crew on Omega," she continued, getting to her feet. "It's the most neutral port. They can get transport from there back to their homeworlds. If this tribunal doesn't go well for me—we both know it probably won't—they're the only chance the galaxy has against the Reapers. They've seen it all firsthand. Their people will turn to them when the war comes…even if I'm not there."_

"_Systems Alliance law still applies, Shepard," said Hackett, his brows furrowed. "The death penalty is only applicable in the most extreme cases."_

_She looked up and met his eyes. He didn't have to say it. She could read it in his face: _And this is one of those cases.

* * *

Looking out at the view of Vancouver from the window of her cell, Shepard ran her fingers over the knuckles of her right hand. There were no scars from where the hard surface of the table had torn her skin a week before. The Cerberus implants healed it too quickly, but the memory of the physical pain dulling, for a moment, the ache of guilt remained.

Three hundred thousand souls lost, but they weren't the first causalities of war with the Reapers. There were Jenkins and Ashley and the sailors who had gone down with the Fifth Fleet's dreadnaughts and frigates, their counterparts in the Twenty-Fourth Citadel Fleet, even Pressly. And there would be so many more before it was over.

From her window she could see a pair of boys kicking a soccer ball around in the rooftop garden of the house a few blocks away. She smiled as she watched them, but her heart felt like lead in her chest.

_How many batarian kids had been on Aratoht_? she wondered. More than half the population had been slaves, toiling in the mines, but batarians lives were still lives, and she had destroyed them with a single command.

She pounded her fist into her desk, shaking the terminal she had only used to watch the news vids of the relief and recovery missions in the Bahak system and its environs. At least three times a day there was a featured interview with another spacer who had lost his or her entire family when the relay was destroyed. Shepard learned their faces, committing each one to memory.

She had woken that morning at 0400 with a start, gasping for breath. Her heart was hammering in her chest as her eyes slowly focused. It wasn't the blackness of space that surrounded her, but the small apartment that served as her prison cell in Vancouver. She was naked beneath a navy blue sheet, lying in a bed at Earth standard gravity, not wearing her armor as her body thrashed in the vacuum. Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes.

Though she had no conscious memory her death, her subconscious recalled it. Every so often she would awaken clutching at her throat and sucking down the precious oxygen her body had been deprived of nearly three years before. It had been months since the last time, though.

The dream about Hackett's debrief after Bahak had to have triggered it. Shepard didn't frequently think about dying, not even after Cerberus had given her life back to her. Death was a part of the everyday life of a marine. She had long ago stopped wondering before she went into battle if she would come back. The mission was her only objective. If she completed it, she would likely come out the other side in one piece. That wasn't always the case, but for the most part it held true.

On the battlefield she may have been too preoccupied to think about it, but when all she was doing was waiting around for the tribunal that would determine whether she had committed a capital crime, it was never far from her mind. She wasn't afraid of death; it was not being able to stand against the Reapers that troubled her. Being unable to destroy the machines that had forced her hand in Bahak. The galaxy would rise when the time came, but she wanted to be on the ground, fighting and even dying for all life, both organic and synthetic.

She smiled as she thought of Tali and Legion. After she had spoken to Admiral Hackett the week before, she had called the crew together in the mess…

"_This had better be good, Commander," said Joker—the last to arrive—as he sank into one the chairs. "I love EDI, but _Normandy_ is _my_ ship to fly."_

_Shepard almost smiled. She had been right to tell Hackett that Joker would never leave the ship willingly._

"_You'll be back at your post soon enough, Joker," she said, "but you're the only one." He, and the rest of the crew as well, looked at her quizzically. Steeling herself, she explained._

"_Shepard, I would strongly advise against this course of action," Miranda Lawson said when she had finished. "This tribunal will have no other choice but to find you guilty. Though I have not always agreed with him, the Illusive Man was right in that you're the best hope the galaxy has to defeat the Reapers. If you are incarcerated—or worse—our chances of victory will be drastically reduced."_

"_As much as I hate to agree with the cheerleader," said Jack from where she stood, leaning against the med bay window, "she's right. We just did shit to the Collectors that an entire goddamn army couldn't have pulled off on good day. Screw the tribunal. We've got a ship. We'll get you off the grid."_

"_The Shadow Broker's ship would be an adequate place to spend a few months, Shepard," the holographic display of Liara said._

"_There is also a place for Shepard-Commander among us," Legion added. "Human vessels venture beyond the Perseus Veil 2.6879 per—"_

"_No," Shepard interrupted, stern. "I won't run from this. I did it to stop the Reapers, and it's my responsibility to explain that to the tribunal."_

"_It's your word against the Council's," Garrus said. "And with the _Normandy_ flying Cerberus colors, I doubt the tribunal will side with you. This once, Shepard, don't listen to your sense of honor."_

_Taking a step forward, Samara said, "The Code dictates that I must see justice served. Your actions in the Bahak System were regrettable, Commander, but they were necessary. I will gladly explain this to the human and batarian authorities."_

"_The word of a Justicar has significantly more weight among the asari than among humans," said Liara, her eyes sorrowful. "I doubt it would put a stop to the trial."_

"_This is bull," Jacob growled. "Shepard just saved humanity's collective asses from getting turned into the next Reaper and this is their thank-you card? I'm with Miranda on this one, Commander. Get underground and get ready for the war on your own terms."_

_She shook her head. "Even if the tribunal and the Council won't believe that the Reapers are a real threat, I have to try to convince them. And all of you have to do the same on your own homeworlds. I'm not the key to defeating the Reapers. One person, one species can't stand up to them. We have to be united."_

"_You're right," said Tali, glancing over at Legion. "My people are about to declare war on the geth. I have to go to the Flotilla and try to stop it. The quarians and geth together are a stronger opponent than two decimated armies."_

"_Exactly," said Shepard._

"_The quarian is, for the most part, still in her people's good graces," Zaeed said "but the rest of us…" He shook his head. "I've had a price on my head for twenty years. Goto's got one as well. Your turian is a bloody defector. The drell is a hired gun. I won't bother mentioning the krogan; his species has enough problems as it is. One of your asari is a spymaster, the other stays out of politics. The salarians think Solus is a lunatic. The humans are all Cerberus. If they show up in Alliance space they're just as likely to get hauled in on terrorist charges as you are. How are we supposed to thrum up support, Shepard? Makes more sense just to take a bloody trip to the Veil and start building a goddamn arsenal."_

"_The mercenary makes a valid point, _Siha_," Thane said. "My word is worth little to either the drell or the hanar."_

"_Enough!" Shepard snapped. "The decision has been made. I'm going to Earth. If you just want to disappear, fine, but I expected more. I've seen more. You don't have to lobby your ambassadors. There are other ways of fighting. I won't stop, not until either the tribunal or the Reapers put me in the ground." Casting her eyes up, she said, "EDI, plot a course for Omega."_

"_Course laid, Commander."_

_She frowned. "What, you don't want to weigh in on this?"_

"_As you have made clear, Shepard, you have already made your choice. My opinion will not serve to convince you to change your mind."_

"_Thank you, EDI. At least you and Tali can see some sense."_

"_Though the decision is logical," said the AI, "I imagine that Tali'Zorah does not like it any more than I or the rest of your crew do."_

"_That'll be all, EDI."_

"_Yes, Commander."_

Shepard smiled despite herself. At first, she had not been overly fond of the _Normandy_ _SR-2_'s Enhanced Defense Intelligence, but she had grown to like and eventually to trust the AI as she would any other member of crew. EDI had saved their skins more than once and it wasn't something Shepard was like to forget.

Sighing, she turned away from the window and tried not to think about where the Alliance had taken the _Normandy_. Once the crew had disembarked at Omega, the ship seemed to echo with emptiness. Only Joker, Dr. Chakwas, Admiral Hackett, and Shepard remained aboard as a skeleton crew.

Though it was self-indulgent, Shepard had stayed in her cabin as they traveled between the Omega Nebula and Local Cluster. She lay on her bed, watching the mass effect field glimmer overhead. Earth was humanity's homeworld, but it was little more than a symbol to her. The daughter of two frigate captains, she had grown up between starships rather than planetside. She had done her training on Earth, attending West Point despite her mother's insistence that she go to the Alliance Naval Academy.

Captain Hannah Shepard of the _SSV Orizaba_ bled Navy blue, but her daughter preferred to command a ground team rather than a fleet of ships. Shepard figured her mother still resented her choice of the Marines, though having your daughter selected as the first human Spectre by the Council had to assuage that resentment somewhat.

_Until that same daughter gets tried for terrorism, of course_.

Going into the bathroom, Shepard splashed some water on her face. She leaned against the counter, looking at her reflection. The smoothness of her skin still caught her off guard sometimes. Cerberus had done a hell of a job with her physical restoration, she had to admit that. The scars of childhood injuries and battlefield damage had disappeared, leaving her body completely unmarked.

Though her eyes were still the same color they had always been, if the light caught them just right, she could see a gleam of red at the pupils, the mark of the cybernetic corneas. Maybe it should have bothered her, but it never had. Miranda had assured her that they had made no alterations to her consciousness, that she was, in effect, the same person she had been before her death. Joker had said that she was Shepard SR-2, just like "his baby," the _Normandy_.

Shepard's stomach rumbled, reminding her not only that she was still very human, but also that Lieutenant Vega was past due with breakfast. For the first few days, she had hardly noticed anything about him; his face had been just another blur in the periphery of her mind. But, when he had appeared the night before with an impressive black eye, it was as if she were seeing his features for the first time.

He will built like a brick wall. That was the first thing she noticed. Just under six feet tall, muscular, and broad, he couldn't have weighed less than two hundred pounds. His dark hair was close-cropped at the sides, but longer at the top, giving him a short Mohawk. No everyone would be able to pull it off, Shepard noted, but it looked good on him.

Vega generally wore standard issue duty fatigues and a short sleeved tee shirt, allowing Shepard to see the tattoos on the side of his neck and right bicep. Like most marines, he had scars. One cut across his lower lip, another was below his left eye, and the largest cut across his nose and along his right cheek. He wasn't a conventionally attractive man, but the combination of his size, the tattoos, and the scars worked to his benefit.

Boxing, he had said, had earned him the shiner around one of his brown eyes. He'd been modest when Shepard had asked him about his ability in the ring, but she hadn't been lying when she said she'd bet on him. She imagined that in a fight he was something to behold.

She cracked her knuckles at the thought of going a few rounds like she used to as a recruit. She had won a few tournaments as a welterweight back at West Point. She'd always driven the heavier fighters crazy with her speed. She'd been able to avoid their hardest hits for the most part, needling her opponents with quick, hard jabs until they went down. Curling her hands into fists, she wondered how Vega moved in the ring. The big fighters like him packed a knock-out punch, but that was only if they could catch her.

Shepard rose up onto her rose and threw a couple of punches. She had only been in Vancouver for a week, but already she itched to get back into the field. She missed the feel of her rifle in her hands as she scoped and dropped mercs or Collector drones. Groaning, she rubbed her face. Waiting for this tribunal was going to drive her mad.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, for which she was grateful.

"Come in," she said, forcing herself to get control of her temper. She heard the complex electronic locks releasing and the door hissing open. In strode Lieutenant Vega, balancing heavily laden mess hall tray as if it weighed nothing.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said. His voice was deep and resonated with the barest hint of an accent, as though he had grown up speaking something other than Alliance-standard English. The swelling around his eye had gone down, Shepard noted, though the bruise was beginning to yellow.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," she said. "Whatever you have there smells fantastic."

He held out the tray. "Blueberry pancakes. Blueberry syrup, too. Mess Sergeant Randall's 'special recipe,' whatever that means."

"I can only imagine," Shepard laughed. While the food at Judicial Division Headquarters was a step up from the usual fare aboard a starship, it wasn't anything to write home about. Still, Shepard appreciated that the mess sergeant seemed to go out of his way to make her something palatable. Taking the tray from Vega, she set it down on her desk.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," she said, "for always bringing my meals here. I imagine an N6 has other duties on base."

"It's not a problem, ma'am," said Vega. "And my primary assignment here is to provide security for you."

Shepard's brows knit. Security was a job for an enlisted man, not an N6 officer.

"And who in Alliance Command did you piss off to get _that_ assignment?" she asked, only half-joking. No one made it to the second highest rank in special operations without being the best of the best. Vega had to have terrible luck or he had done something to deserve a post so far below his pay grade. Shepard hoped it was the former. He certainly looked the part of a capable N6.

"I can't say I know," he replied, shrugging. "One minute I was in a bar on Omega taking some shore leave and the next there's a Spectre on my tail with orders to bring me here."

"A Spectre?" asked Shepard, surprised. "That must have been a hell of a shock."

"You're got that right, ma'am," Vega laughed. "I'd never seen one before, let alone have one come looking for me. At least I was on the right side of his gun…and yours, Commander."

Shepard held out her empty hands. "I'm unarmed, Lieutenant. I swear. And didn't you hear? The Council suspended my Spectre status."

Vega frowned. "I did, ma'am. And a jacket with the holes to prove it."

"What?" asked Shepard, cocking a brow.

"Ah, well…uh," he stammered. "It's nothing, ma'am. Really."

"You can't say something like that and just brush it off," said Shepard, leaning back against her desk. "Come on, Lieutenant."

Vega rubbed the back of his neck, refusing to meet Shepard's eyes. "Well, Commander…I was in a…brawl on Omega with some batarians who didn't appreciate what you'd done for the galaxy and…uh, they threw me into a window. The glass ripped a few holes in my new jacket."

Shepard gaped at him for a moment, trying to imagine the scene. "Bar brawl?"

He nodded sheepishly. "In a dump called Fuselage."

"Now _there's_ an understatement," she said, laughing. "Fuselage has to be the shittiest bar on the entire station. What were you doing there?"

"Poker," said Vega.

Shepard crossed her arms over her chest, amused. "You're a gambler. Did you win something that night?"

"Cleaned those four-eyed bastards out," Vega said.

"Good," said Shepard. "At least you can buy yourself a new jacket."

Vega shrugged. "I dunno, ma'am. I've gotten a little fond of those holes."

Shepard smiled, going around to start in on her breakfast. Whatever Vega had done to get himself assigned to her security detail, she was glad for it. She had to admit, she liked him.

"I'll leave you to it, then," he said, glancing at her pancakes. "If you need anything, ma'am, you know where the intercom is."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," said Shepard, and she meant it.

* * *

James had been in the gym that afternoon when he received a message from Admiral Okonjo, the head of Alliance Judicial Division and the highest ranking officer at Vancouver Headquarters.

Pulling it up on his omni-tool, he read: "Lieutenant Vega – I received your request for access to the athletic facilities for Commander Shepard. I'd like to speak to you in person. My office is on the sixth floor. 1900. Come hungry."

_Well_, he thought, _at least she keeps things brief_.

Finishing up his workout, he tried to remember what Lieutenant Yang had said about the admiral when he had gotten into port. Something about knowing her people? He didn't really know what to expect. It wasn't too often a CO invited her subordinates up for dinner, but JD was a small operation. There were about the same number of military lawyers as there were N7s—not many—and James was willing to bet that Okonjo was the one who assigned cases. She would need to get to know her staff.

Admiral Okonjo's office was the only door on the sixth floor. It was emblazoned with the insignia of the Alliance, but also the scales and anchor of the Naval Judicial Division. James waited until the time on his omni-tool read exactly 1900 before pressing the intercom buzzer.

The door opened a moment later, revealing a tall woman with flawless dark skin and short, curly hair. She was in her early fifties, James guessed, and wore a battered apron over her jacket and blue striped slacks.

Snapping to attention, he said, "Admiral Okonjo."

"Lieutenant Vega," she replied. "Right on time. Come in. I'm just finishing up." She led the way through a richly furnished office, decked with shelves of antique books. Nothing had been printed in paper form for a hundred years, but there were still collectors out there at loved the old relics. Okonjo must have been one of them.

James followed her through a door behind the impressive hardwood desk that occupied the center of the room and into an open, brightly lit penthouse. Like much of the rest of the base, it had expansive windows that looked out over Vancouver. A large dining table stood next the largest of them, though only two places were set. There was a fire crackling in the open fireplace at the center of the adjacent living room. The furniture was rich, dark leather. There was a wood and glass liquor cabinet in the back corner.

"I trust you can mix yourself something to drink," said Okonjo from the kitchen. She was bent over the oven. There were several pots steaming on the stove, the large silver fume hood guiding the vapor up and out.

Shrugging inwardly, James went over to the cabinet and surveyed the contents. He suppressed the urge to whistle when he spotted the bottle of single malt from Scotland. Authentic scotch was nearly impossible to come by anywhere but Earth. He dropped a few ice cubes into a tumbler and poured himself two fingers of the whiskey.

"You have good taste," said Okonjo. She had removed her apron and was carrying a tray over to the table. "I hope you like duck as much as good liquor."

"I do, ma'am," James said as he went over, his stomach rumbling in approval.

Okonjo gestured to the chair to the right of hers. James sank into it and allowed the admiral to serve him.

"Braised duck with figs and port," she said as she sat down and took a long sip of red wine. "Potatoes and beans on the side. Cooking is my hobby. Everyone who comes into this building for longer than a few days gets subjected to it."

"The punishment is going back to mess after this," James said, swallowing a forkful of the meat.

Okonjo chuckled. "Indeed. So, Lieutenant Vega, what do you make of Headquarters? Scuttlebutt is you're quite the boxer. I think I could see that."

James shrugged. "It passes the time, ma'am."

"And you have quite a lot of it," she said, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yes, ma'am."

Okonjo waved her fork dismissively. "I'm sorry. I asked you for your opinion of JD and then didn't let you answer."

"You run a tight ship," said James, washing the buttery potatoes down with a swig of whiskey. "A lot going on here."

"Arcturus keeps us busy. We do more than just the criminal cases. Most of our work is colonial bureaucratic crap. Dry as hell." She chewed for a moment, seemingly enjoying the meal as much as James was. "How's your room? Comfortable?"

He nodded. "It's more than I'm used to."

"I don't doubt that," Okonjo laughed. "I remember being in the field during the First Contact War. The Alliance needed all the bodies they could get and even stooped to recruiting JD. If I never have sleep in a combat cot again, it'll be too goddamn soon. But you…an N6 should be on the ground."

"So should an N7," James said before he could check himself.

Okonjo smiled. "You're right about that, but until the Council and Arcturus get what happened in Bahak straight, the best place for Commander Shepard is here."

James stabbed a few green beans and popped them into his mouth. "If they want to know what went down, why don't they just talk to her?"

"The hell if I know, Lieutenant. That kind of shit is above my pay grade. And yours."

James smiled one-sidedly. He knew when he was being told to drop it. "Yes, ma'am."

"How do you find our resident galactic hero?"

"She's a marine," he said, frowning. "She needs action. I give her another two days before she goes nuts confined to quarters." It was a little bit of an exaggeration. She had just said she wanted to get some exercise, but it never hurt to make a strong case. "I know she has to stay on base, Admiral, but could she at least get to the gym, take a walk outside sometime? I know I'd be losing it if I were in her position. She wouldn't try to run. No marine would."

"Oh, I know that," said Okonjo, steepling her fingers over her plate. "And it's not what I'm concerned about. It's her safety. Batarian visas are fairly limited on Earth, but there are some in Vancouver. I don't mean to imply that they'd try to take her out, but it has been suggested by more than one Hegemony official. Justice doesn't work quite the same way in batarian culture as it does in ours. They're calling for blood, and it's my responsibility to keep Shepard safe."

"With all due respect, ma'am," James said, "Shepard is N7 and a Spectre. People like that don't get taken out by clumsy assassination attempts."

"Who's to say they'd be clumsy?" she countered.

"Unless the Hegemony hires a drell assassin," said James, "I doubt they'd be able to put her down."

"Given."

Laying down his fork and knife, he said, "She'd be guarded at all times. I may not be as good as her, but it's another set of eyes."

"You're being quite modest, Lieutenant," Okonjo said. "You're N6, and no one goes into spec ops training without damn sharp eyes." Falling back against her chair, she sighed. "I can't in good conscience let her stroll around outside, but she can have access to the gym after hours. I don't want to her down there while there are other sailors about. It's going to be you and her, that's it."

"I think that's manageable, ma'am."

"Your prints will be put on the roster for afterhours access. I'll force the paperwork through tonight."

"Thank you, Admiral."

"It's not a problem, Vega. I have to admit, I wasn't sure what to make of you when Hackett sent over your file. You're overqualified for an assignment like this, but you've got the ability to accept it and do the job, even if it's beneath you. Not many marines your caliber could do that."

_It's what I deserve after Fehl Prime_, he thought, frowning. It was a quiet assignment that kept him from getting anyone else killed. "If this is what the Alliance needs me to do, ma'am, I'll do it."

Okonjo nodded. "Understood, Lieutenant, but you'll have a good letter from me to your next CO. Maybe even get your promotion to N7 expedited."

James swallowed, but forced himself to reply, "I would appreciate that, Admiral."

"Good. Now eat, Lieutenant, and tell me where you're from."

* * *

James left Okonjo's office full and pleased with himself. He had managed to get Shepard out of total house arrest _and _drink two glasses of the best whisky he'd had in years. The admiral was an odd one, that was for sure, but he figured that he had just eaten better than he would for a while. It hadn't been his _abuela_'stamales, but it was damn good.

It was nearly 2100 by the time he arrived back on the fifth floor, but he wanted to give the good news to Shepard before retiring to his own quarters for the night. Approaching her door, he knocked.

She answered with the usual, "Come in."

As the door slid open, he stopped dead, his eyes widening. Shepard was parallel to the gray carpet, doing push-ups in her standard issue bra and a pair of blue shorts. Her shoulders and arms were shining with a light sheen of sweat. She was strong, that was clear, but it was all lithe strength rather than bulk. James watched, fascinated by the smooth interplay of the muscles beneath her skin. It hadn't escaped his notice that Shepard was a good looking woman. And now he could see that she had the body of a warrior, and that got his blood burning more than any of the buxom specimens in _Fornax_.

As she finished her set, she got to her feet. Using the towel that had hung around her neck, she wiped her face. "Can I do something for you, Lieutenant?"

"Uh, I was just up to see the admiral," he managed to say. "She gave us, uh, you permission to use the gym after hours. I have to escort you, of course, but it's something."

"It's more than I expected," she said, a smile spreading across her face. She held out her hand. "Thank you."

As James grasped her fingers, he felt a jolt, like all the nerves in his arm firing at once. Her grip was firm and cool, the palm of her hand lightly calloused.

"It was my pleasure, Commander," he said.

She shook her head. "You don't have to call me that, Vega."

"You gonna report me…Commander?" he asked.

"No," she replied, the corner of her mouth turning up again. "I guess not."

Nodding, James backed up a step. Her proximity muddled his head more than he liked.

"Well, I'd better get out of here," he said. "Let you shower."

Shepard's workout gear left little to the imagination, but the idea of her minus even that sent his head spinning. He figured that he should take a shower himself. A cold one.

"Are you saying I stink, Vega?" she said, raising a single eyebrow.

He balked, surprised at her teasing tone, but then he leaned toward her and sniffed. "Maybe a little. Goodnight, Commander."

She gave him a wry smile as she rolled her eyes. "Goodnight, Lieutenant."

As he made his way to the door, he ventured a glance back behind him just in time to catch Shepard with her nose near her armpit. Grinning, he strode out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

It rarely snowed in Vancouver, or so James had been told the next night in the mess as he joined Robert Alistair and a few other JDH officers at their table by the window.

"You'd better get out there now," said Alistair, "if you want to make your snowman before it melts in the rain tomorrow."

"I've seen snow before, Pablo," James said around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

The young lawyer shrugged. "So have I, but that doesn't stop me from going out and starting a snowball fight like a bloody ten-year-old boy."

"I'll pass," said James, shaking his head. He was eating as quickly as he could manage since he would be escorting Commander Shepard to the gym after she had eaten her dinner. He didn't want to keep her waiting.

Swallowing the last of his meatloaf and drinking down a glass of water, he got up and went over to retrieve the full plate Mess Sergeant Randall had prepared for Shepard. He thanked he grizzled solider and made his way to the elevators.

Snow was nothing new to him, but he was surprised to learn that Shepard had never seen it before. When he entered her quarters, she was standing at the large window, her hands pressed against the glass like a wonderstruck kid.

"Vega, come look," she said excitedly. "It's snowing."

"I see that, ma'am," he said, holding back a grin. "Care for some dinner?"

"I could eat," she said, sitting down on the edge of her desk and attacking the meatloaf with her fork. She never looked away from the window, though.

James turned to go, intending to give her a few minutes to eat in peace, but before he had taken a step she said, "You don't seem too excited about this." She glanced up at him. "You from somewhere cold?"

"Southern California," he replied.

Shepard shot him a look. "Oh, yeah, wintery Southern California. Of course."

"I went to the mountains in Chile once," he said, shrugging.

"Ski trip?"

"That was the idea, but it turned out none of us were any good, so we spent most of the time in the cabin getting drunk and playing cards."

Shepard smiled. "I've had a few leaves like that. How long ago?"

"Four years, give or take."

She nodded.

"So," said James, "did you do basic in the tropics or something?" Every Alliance solider went to basic training on Earth, no matter where he or she enlisted. There were a number of facilities across the planet, though.

"Macapá," Shepard replied.

"Not much snow in Brazil," said James. "That near the good beaches?"

"No," she grumbled. "Rainforest. The only water nearby was a muddy river full of leeches. How about you? When'd you enlist?"

"I went in straight out of high school," he said. "Didn't even go to my graduation. I reported to Camp Pendleton the day after I took my last exam."

"Pendleton. I've heard that's no vacation."

"You're damn right," James said. "Got some of my best scars there." He pointed to the curved line under his left eye. "Live fire exercise. Nearly took a round from a Lancer III to the face. Decided to look right or I'd be dead. I gave that recruit something to think about later that night, though. Landed us both in brig for three days, but I had a scar so I figured he needed one too."

Shepard chuckled as she scooped up a forkful of peas.

James grinned and continued, "Once my thirteen weeks were up I got deployed to the Skyllian Verge. They had increased patrols, you know, after the Blitz."

Shepard nodded grimly. "I remember. I wanted to stay on, help my unit with the cleanup on Elysium, but I got a call from Rio."

James knew the story, of course. First Lieutenant Shepard had been on shore leave on Elysium when Elanos Haliat and his pirates—funded by the batarians—had hit the planet. Grabbing the nearest weapons, she had managed to hold off an entire enemy platoon while the other soldiers had gone for reinforcements. By the same time the next day, her name and face were familiar to every recruit in Camp Pendleton.

James remembered watching the coverage of her being presented with the Star of Terra on the Alliance News Network a couple of weeks after. A few of the other recruits in the rec room had whistled as she stood at attention in her dress blues.

"Shut the fuck up, Martinez," James had snapped at a fellow recruit who had wondered aloud what she would look like standing at attention in nothing but her hat.

"What's your problem, Vega?" he had replied, a shit-eating grin on his face. "She your sister or something?" When he said nothing, Martinez taunted, "Well, I'll be damned, boys. Mister Vega's in love."

James crossed the distance between them in a single leap, pressing his face against Martinez's. "Show some respect, _pendejo_. Commander Shepard is a superior officer, and you're just a dumb grunt like the rest of us. I'd like to see you talk about Gunnery Chief Lewis like that."

Lewis was among the senior officers at Pendleton. She wasn't bad to look at, but she also never let a recruit forget that she could skin him alive without batting an eye. Martinez had backed down once James had mentioned her. Nobody fucked with Lewis.

It wasn't long after they watched Shepard get her medal that day that she was asked to join the incoming cohort at the Interplanetary Combatives Academy—the Special Operations training program—at Vila Militar in Rio de Janeiro.

Whether or not you had a commission, if you were good enough, you could get picked to train for the N7. From the day James heard about it in basic, he knew it was what he wanted to do. He nailed every training, came out at the top of his class, and got in the way of some serious firepower to prove he was ready. He got his own call after eight long years with the Alliance.

"How long were in you in the Verge?" Shepard asked.

"Twenty-three months," he replied. "Slowest two years of my career. We took down some pirates, yeah, but it was all routine. I finally put in for a transfer and got assigned to the drop team for the _SSV Endymion_, a patrol frigate in the Attican Traverse. _That_ was a good tour."

Shepard grinned knowingly. "Did you parents serve?"

"No," said James. "My dad always said that the Alliance was a waste of taxpayer money."

"I take he wasn't too pleased when you decided to join up?"

"Hell no, but in the end I don't think he cared as long as I wasn't in the way of his next line of red sand."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said.

He shrugged. "I got out, right?"

"Do you talk to him?" Shepard asked.

"No. I write to my uncle, though. He's ex-military, the reason I joined the marines." He scratched his chin. "What about you? What kind of family do you have?"

"It's just my mother now," Shepard said, "but I haven't seen her in…a couple of years."

"She still serving?"

Shepard raised a brow. "How'd you know she was in?"

"After you disappeared," he said, "the Navy did a bunch of interviews with her. She's a captain, right?"

"Yeah. _SSV Orizaba_." She scooped up the last her mashed potatoes absently.

"I could request a comm link if you want to talk to her," said James. "I'm sure the admiral can work something out."

She shook her head. "I doubt she'd permit that. The gym is one thing, an interplanetary call is another. I'm on comm lockdown."

"Understood, ma'am," James said. He managed to resist the urge to salute, though barely.

Shepard smiled one-sidedly. "So, we heading down to the gym?"

"Ready if you are, commander."

She nodded. "Been looking forward to it all day." Setting her tray to the side, she bounced on her toes once and then followed him across the room to the door.

The halls were mostly empty as they made their way down to the lowest level of JDH. The gym was dark when they arrived. James pressed his thumb against the scanner and a moment later the door slid open. The lights came up as he and Shepard stepped inside.

"Not bad," she said as she looked around at the equipment.

"It gets the job done," said James. "And I have to admit, it's pretty nice to have the place to ourselves. No waiting around for weights."

Shepard smiled. "I guess there are a few perks to this. I'm starting on the treadmill. Want to do a couple of miles?"

"Lead the way, ma'am."

James wasn't much of a runner, but he recognized the need for it when he wasn't out on missions in full battle dress. The armor he wore weighed nearly thirty pounds and constant planetside missions kept him moving. He'd never had a problem with keeping in good form.

He started at an easy jog as he warmed up, but added some speed as he felt sweat start to prickle at his scalp. Shepard was moving quite a bit faster than he was, her long strides spanning the length of the treadmill. James could imagine her eating up the ground as she charged across the battlefield. That had to be something to see.

Part of him still couldn't believe that she was really there. For years he had admired her, even idolized her, but he never figured they'd actually meet. N7s were rarely assigned to the same missions. Spec ops units packed a hell of a punch and most missions didn't need more than one. Shepard was a Spectre—well, had been a Spectre—too; she had her own ops. The likelihood of their crossing paths had been next to nil. Whatever he did to make Councilor Anderson assign him to this detail, he was pretty damn pleased about it, even if it kept him from active duty.

Shepard slowed her pace after twenty minutes, springing off the treadmill and grabbing a bottle of water. She tossed one to James as well. He drank half of it down.

"It feels good to work out again," she said as she laid back on the bench press. "Been ages since I've been in a proper gym, though. My ship didn't have much more than a chin up bar."

"I've served on a couple of frigates like that," said James, setting the weight on the leg press. "Never minded much when I was doing drops planetside every day."

"True enough," Shepard said between reps. "Were you on patrol for your last tour?"

James swallowed heavily. He didn't want to talk about Fehl Prime, especially not to Commander Shepard. "No," he managed to say. "My squad was doing colony security."

"Were you there long?"

"Two years."

"How'd you like it?"

"I wasn't too happy about it at first," he said, "but I got used to it. There were…good people there." _Good people I got killed._

"I never did an extended assignment in the colonies," said Shepard, "but _Normandy_ did drops fairly often. You've got to admire colonists. It's not an easy life."

"You've got that right," said James. He couldn't help but think of April and Christine. Though April had only been a kid, she was tough as nails. She would have made a damn good marine someday. James cursed himself and the Collectors. They took her and all the other colonists, people he gotten to know, people he cared about. He had failed them.

"You all right, Vega?" Shepard asked. She was sitting at the edge of the bench, looking at him.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, clearing his throat.

She nodded, though she didn't look altogether convinced. Still, she dropped the issue, asking, "You done with that leg press?"

"It's all yours," he replied, getting up.

They continued their workout in silence for a while. James had wanted to ask her more about her missions, about the Battle of the Citadel or even Elysium, but his thoughts kept coming back to Fehl Prime. He should let it go, he knew, but he was afraid that he never would.

Glancing over at Shepard, he thought, S_he's twice the marine I am._ That's_ an N7. _He wasn't sure anymore that he had what it took to measure up. Yet, he remembered what Anderson had said: "Commander Shepard is the most decorated N7 in the Alliance. Pay attention and you might just learn something from her."

He sighed. "Commander, can I ask you something?"

"Fire away, lieutenant," she replied.

"I was just hoping you might tell me something about taking down Saren. If you don't mind."

To his surprise, she smiled. "Sure. It's a long story, though."

"Well, we've still got another circuit of the gym to make."

"So we do," said Shepard. "Well, I guess it all started on Eden Prime…"

* * *

"So, you're telling me that this creature—this Thorian thing—was old enough to have first-hand knowledge of the protheans?" asked Vega as he racked the barbell he had been using to do squats. Grabbing a towel, he wiped his face.

"That's why we needed it," Shepard replied, working at the lat pull down. "Without the Cipher I wouldn't have been able to understand what the beacon on Eden Prime showed me."

Finishing the last of her set, she grinned. After a good two hours in the gym, her body was pleasantly shaky with fatigue. The cybernetic implants Cerberus had woven into her muscles made it harder for her to work herself to exhaustion, but she had managed. Reaching for the bottle of water at her feet, she took a long drink.

"Beacons, ciphers, green asari," Vega said, shaking his head. "There's a hell of a lot in this galaxy that we don't know about, isn't there?"

"You could say that again," Shepard said. "No matter how much of it I see, there's always something else just waiting beyond the next star system."

"I kind of like that. It means this job will never get old."

"I like the way you think, Vega," she said, smiling. Though it had been nearly forty-five minutes since she had started her story, she was not even close to finished. It was Vega's fault, since he couldn't seem to stop asking questions. He wanted to know everything, from the type of rifle she carried when she went to rescue Dr. Liara T'Soni on Therum to how she handled having biotics on her squad for the first time.

"It took some getting used to," she had said, "but once I saw what Liara and Kaidan were capable of, I always had one of them with me a drop."

"I was lucky to have Essex on my squad," Vega said. "He was our biotic. Damn good marine, too."

Shepard hadn't missed the solemnity of his tone. Soldiers talked like that when they mentioned a fallen comrade. She wondered how this Essex had died. It had something to do with the colony Vega had served on before coming to Earth, she had no doubt about that, but it was clear that he didn't want to talk about it. She was curious about what he wasn't saying, but she knew it wasn't the right time to ask. She had known enough marines in her time to understand that old wounds didn't need to be reopened. Maybe he'd tell her in time, maybe he wouldn't.

"So, what happened next?" he asked. "You put the Thorian down, got the Cipher, and then what?"

"We took the asari—the real one, not one of the clones—back to the colony. She said she wanted to help them rebuild."

"You trusted her? Wasn't she one of Benezia's lackeys?"

Shepard nodded. "She was, but after Saren traded her to the Thorian, she figured she needed a new job. Wouldn't you have done the same thing?"

"I guess so, yeah," said Vega.

"It turned out she did good by the colonists, though," Shepard said. "I ran into her on Ilium once while she was doing a supply run for the colony. Far as I know, they're doing all right."

"Did you stick around long after you got her back to Zhu's Hope?"

"No," she said. "We had to go straight to Noveria. But let's save that part until tomorrow. We should head back upstairs."

"Right," Vega said, looking a little sheepish. "I didn't mean to keep you talking all night."

Shepard clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it, lieutenant. It's been a while since I've told this story. It was hell at the time, but now it's 'the good old days.'"

She smiled, thinking of Garrus. When the _Normandy _had dropped the crew on Omega, he had told her he was catching a ship back to Palaven to drum up what support he could manage for the fight against the Reapers. She hoped he was having more luck than she was.

There was still no word from the Alliance brass about when the tribunal would begin or what it would entail. She was used to keeping things need-to-know, but that didn't make the waiting any easier. But, the gym, at least, gave her something to look forward to every day.

"So, Vega," she said as they walked through the deserted halls on their way back up to the fifth floor, "what's there to do around here when you're not bringing me my three squares? You can't spend all of your time in the gym."

"Well," he said, "I've been catching up on the best vids from the past couple of years. Picked up a book. _The Stand of the Fifth._"

"I think I've heard of that one," said Shepard. "It's about the Fifth Fleet during the Battle of the Citadel."

Vega nodded. "It's a little heavy on the propaganda and a little light on the details about the geth ship, but it's got full descriptions of the combat maneuvers Admiral Hackett ordered to save the _Destiny Ascension_."

"'Geth ship,'" Shepard scoffed. "That's what they're saying it was?"

"Yeah," said Vega, "but I've heard…other stories."

She glanced over at him. "Would you believe it if I said it was a sentient machine, one of thousands that are waiting in dark space? Or would you just say I'm crazy like Council did?"

"If I know anything, commander," he said as they stopped outside of Shepard's quarters, "it's that you've seen things no one else has. The Thorian, prothean technology that nobody had touched in a few thousand years…if you say that ship was something more than a geth dreadnaught, I believe you."

"Thank you," she said and she meant it. "It's been a while since anyone has taken me at my word on that. Now I just have to convince the rest of the galaxy and maybe we'll have a chance at beating the Reapers."

"Reapers," said Vega. "That's what they're called?"

"I don't know what they call themselves," she replied, "but that's what we call them. We discovered them when we were chasing Saren. I'll get to that part, if you still want to hear it, of course."

"I do," he said. "All of it."

Shepard smiled. "Well, I'm glad we have a lot of free time on our hands. Why don't you join me for breakfast tomorrow morning and I'll start with Noveria?"

She would tell him most of it, though she intended to omit the part about the rachni queen that she had released. Very few people knew about that, and she wasn't about to compromise the peaceful reestablishment of the species by spreading the word of their return.

"0800?" asked Vega.

"As usual," she replied. "Thanks again for the workout. I really needed it."

"No problem, commander. Have a good night."

"You, too, Vega."

* * *

"Benezia was waiting for us when we got to the hot labs," Shepard said, laying her hands on her desk beside the plate that James had carried up from the mess an hour or so ago. Both of them had long since finished their eggs and sausage, but he had hardly noticed what it tasted like. His attention had been completely focused on Shepard.

"She had a full squad of asari commandos with her," she said. "I just had Garrus and Liara. It was one of the hardest fights I've ever been in, but we managed to put her down."

"Dr. T'Soni had to fight her own mother?" James asked. He couldn't imagine what that had to be like.

Shepard shook her head. "I shot Benezia while Liara dealt with the commandos. I never would have put her in a position where she would have had to kill her mother. There was bad blood between them, but…no, I couldn't have done that. It was enough she had to watch her die."

"Right," said James, swallowing heavily. "So, uh, what came next?"

"We left Noveria with the information we needed," she said. "We would have gone straight to Virmire, but we had to detour. We got a distress call from Alliance Command to deploy to Luna."

"Luna?" James said. "There's nothing there but old science outposts."

"Now there are," she said, "but a few years back, when this all went down, there was a VI research base there. That's why we were sent in. The program went rogue and killed the entire research team. We were sent in to take it offline."

"Sounds like an easy enough job," said James. "Get in, pull the plug, get out."

"It would have been if the VI hadn't armed three heavy turrets to keep us out of the base. And once we got in, it almost released toxic gas to flush us out. But we took it out in the end."

"Man, that must have been a good time," James said.

"You say that now," said Shepard, "but you weren't chasing down a bunch of power nodes while guessing how long you had before a computer released noxious gas."

He laughed. "Yeah, there were more than a few of my drops that were hell in the moment, but when you look back…got to admit, it was a good ride."

Shepard cocked a brow. "So, am I going to get to hear about any of these missions or are you just going to listen to me talk all day?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Most of it's just routine compared to what you've been through."

"Somehow I doubt that," she said. "No one makes it to N6 designation without a damned impressive service record."

"Well, there was this one drop on New Canton," he said. "My squad was sent in to put down a Blue Suns operation a few hundred clicks from the main colony. It was supposed to be an easy in-and-out job: kill some mercs, torch the base. But it didn't go down that way. It turned out the place was a major armory outpost. Those bastards had heavy artillery, grenades, and a fortified position. We had ten marines with standard issue Lancers."

The corners of Shepard's mouth quirked up. "So, pretty good odds, then?"

James grinned, leaning forward. "You're damned right. We broke out into two groups, Captain Toni took four men and gave me the others. I had Kamille, Essex, Nicky, and Milque. We stripped down to our pressure suits, leaving our armor and weapons on the other side of the ridge out of sight. We managed to get around to the back of the compound and cut a hole in the fence without being detected. We took out five of their sentries with only omni-blades and stripped them down. Wearing their armor, we walked right into the base.

"Captain Toni's team cut the power while my squad set charges in the armory. You should have seen it when we detonated the first one. The thermal clips and grenades went up like a fireworks show. The mercs scattered, grabbing whatever weapons they could find, but we cleared a path straight to the control tower. By the time we got there, Captain Toni's team had wiped out half the base with commandeered plasma canons. I saw the whole thing go down from the tower. Hell of a show."

"I'll bet," said Shepard. "So, did you take out the base commander yourself?"

James shook his head. "He got away. See, it turned out the leader of the whole Blue Suns operation was there. He just managed to get a shuttle off world before we lit the base up."

Shepard steepled her fingers under her chin. "That wouldn't have happened to be a man by the name of Zaeed Massani would it?"

"It was," he said, brows rising. "You know something about him?"

"A few things," she said. "I know he's a hell of a shot and that he's retired."

James was positive there was more to the story than that, but he let it slide for now. "Anyway, even if Massani escaped, we put a hurtin' on his operation that day."

"And I'd bet he cursed all the way to whatever world he was bound for," Shepard chuckled. "He always did have a colorful vocabulary."

"You knew him," said James.

"We crossed paths," she said. "But that's beside the point. Sounds like quite the drop you had. Far from 'routine.' Modesty's a virtue, Vega, but I'm asking you to brag a little."

He grinned. "As you say, commander."

She narrowed her eyes. "I have a name. Use it."

"All right, all right…Shepard."

"Better," she said, nodding. "How long ago was that mission?"

"Almost three years now, I think," he replied. "I got my N6 after that drop."

"Sounds like you deserved it," she said. "Three years is long time to wait for your N7 commendation, though."

He felt his stomach tighten, but he managed to say, "Colony duty will keep you out of action for a while."

"Right," said Shepard. "Well, I hope you can get off this security detail sooner rather than later. You should be in the field."

He wasn't exactly sure he agreed, but he wasn't about to say that to her. Instead he shot her a sly grin and asked, "What, you don't like the company? I'm hurt, Shepard." He expected her to roll her eyes, maybe even laugh, but he almost swallowed his tongue when he saw her looking him up and down, grinning all the while.

"It's not so bad," she said, shrugging one shoulder.

James blinked at her dumbly. She was messing with him; she had to be. A little offhanded flirting was nothing new for a marine who had served in mixed units his whole career, but to hear it from Commander Shepard was something wholly different. He swallowed, trying to decide whether to just ignore it completely, say something along the lines of, "Glad to hear it, ma'am," and just move on, or to give it back to her in kind.

It was a gamble, he knew, but he decided on: "Want me stand up and do a couple of twirls for you, commander?"

"Not immediately, lieutenant," she chuckled, "but I'll let you know if I have the hankering later."

James felt a jolt of heat at the base of his spine. _Get a grip, _pendejo, he thought to himself. _She's just jerking your chain_ _like any other marine_.

"You do that, ma'am," he said.

A beep from his omni-tool drew his attention away from her. Glancing down, he saw the reminder that he had entered in the day before: "Ten hundred hours - sparring with Pablo."

"Got somewhere you need to be, Vega?" Shepard asked.

"Actually yeah," he replied. "I'm teaching one of the JD kids to box. He's still getting his feet under him, but he's got potential."

She nodded. "You ever think of having a fight night? We used to do it on some of the boats I served on before _Normandy_. Got a decent betting pool going. I funded a few shore leaves that way."

James scratched his chin. "It's not a bad idea. I might be able to get a few guys together for it. I'll keep it in mind."

"You do that, lieutenant," she said, smirking. "I'll see you later."

Grabbing their empty plates, James nodded to her and headed for the door.


End file.
